Opportunities
by ggo85
Summary: Academy fic following Kirk & McCoy as they progress from shuttle mates to soulmates.
1. Prologue

Rating: Strong PG-13; one section is rated R and will be indicated as such. No sex; no slash.

Summary: How a rowdy young kid and a cyncial doctor transition from sitting next to each other on the shuttle to becoming fast friends. H/C abounds!

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or its characters, but borrowing them for my stories gives me great joy.

Format: This is somewhat of a prequel to my stories "Complications" and "Lessons." It takes place during the Academy years and is divided into a series of vignettes – one each year focusing on Kirk & McCoy along with an "On Call" segment, similar to the "Sickcall" segments of "Lessons."

Beta: A huge, enormous, gigantic thanks to goneashore. Her comments have made my life as a writer miserable and thus my story so much better. She's everything a beta should be . . . and more!

* * *

_Prologue_

"Kirk, what is your problem?"

Cadet Jim Kirk stood at rigid attention exactly one meter in front of the desk of Captain Christopher Pike, hands curled into fists at his sides, shoulders back, head high, eyes staring straight ahead. He kept his mouth closed; this was not a question to which Pike expected an answer.

It was all he could do to stand in place, not moving a muscle. His knuckles, bruised and sore, rebelled at being confined in such a tight grip. The cuts and scrapes that criss-crossed his face burned like hell. One eye was swollen, slightly blurring his vision. His stomach was still churning from the blows it had absorbed. His legs were shaky, knees threatening to buckle. His head was pounding in the brief moments when it didn't feel full of cotton.

He could only imagine how much worse he must look. He'd caught only a brief reflection of himself in the bathroom mirror – bloody nose, swelling around his eyes – the typical result of a bar fight. His uniform, torn and spattered with blood – both his and that of his opponents – provided no hint that he was an upstanding new Starfleet cadet.

This was the first time he'd been in Pike's office; hell, until the summons, he hadn't realized Pike even had an office at the Academy. It definitely wasn't the place a new cadet wanted to find himself, especially under these circumstances.

Pike slowly rounded his desk, approaching until he stood within centimeters of Jim's face. His uniform was immaculate, his demeanor stern. Unrelenting steely blue eyes bored into his. Jim forced himself to remain still under the withering gaze. It was like being called to the principal's office.

A part of him was angry, furious actually, at being hauled in front of Pike like a naughty child. He'd been prepared to be defiant, to tell Pike that he had a goddamn right to go to any bar any time he wanted and, if a bunch of goons decided to pick on him, it was his right – no, obligation – to defend himself. And if the pretend cops who showed up after the fact felt the need to interfere and got punched in the nose for their efforts, well, they got exactly what they deserved.

However, his bravado was quickly disappearing. The Pike who stood in front of him was not the slightly amused Starfleet recruiter who'd confronted him after the Iowa bar brawl only weeks ago. This Pike was definitely not amused. And, Jim was no longer some rowdy kid whom Pike could challenge and embarrass, but not much else. No, Jim was now a lowly cadet and Pike was now his senior officer – and a very pissed senior officer at that – who had the authority to invoke a host of punishments, not the least of which was expulsion. Playing the defiant card might not go so well.

"Kirk, you've been at Starfleet Academy for less than two weeks and you're already making a name for yourself. And it's not a good one." Anger radiated off of the older man who, while barely raising his voice, managed to put over twenty years of command experience into each and every word. Pike snatched a sheet of paper from his desk and waved it in front of Jim's nose. Jim was pretty sure it was a copy of the report filed by the Academy's military police.

"According to the MPs, not only were you out in town after curfew, which is a violation of Academy regulations, but while there you managed to get yourself into a fight with the locals. As if that weren't enough, when security was called, you got into a fight with them as well. Now, given that you're supposed to be in your room studying, explain to me how this happened."

Jim knew the answer to this one. He kept his eyes fixated on a point on the wall directly in front of him. "No excuse, sir."

Pike crumpled the paper in one hand and tossed it hard against the desk. "Don't give me that Academy indoc shit. I'm not your drill instructor, I'm the guy trying to give you a fucking chance to get your life in order and you're the guy doing everything you can as fast as you can to screw it up."

Pike backed off a few steps and softened his tone just a bit. "You know, I thought you actually cared, that you might jump at the chance to make something of your life other than as a punching bag for every thug and bouncer in Iowa. A lot of folks told me I was crazy for recruiting you, told me that you couldn't control yourself, couldn't put aside your juvenile delinquent tendencies long enough to become a productive member of Starfleet. It seems they were right."

This was the time to be contrite and, if truth be told, Jim did feel badly. Pike had taken a chance on him, had probably pulled more than a few strings to get him into the Academy, especially at the last minute. No, Jim hadn't asked for his help, but he'd been quick to accept it. And, as Pike had correctly said, he was already well on his way to screwing it up.

He wasn't sure he could explain what led him to jump the wall and start a fight at the bar. The thought of sitting in his room memorizing crap he'd probably never use again had seemed overwhelmingly oppressive. And he wanted – no, needed – a few drinks. So he'd done what he'd done all of his life, which was whatever felt good at the moment and not necessarily what was the right or smart thing to do. As so often happened, before he knew it, he was . . . well, in trouble.

Maybe he shouldn't have joined Starfleet, shouldn't have allowed Pike to convince him that this was somehow a better life. Three weeks in and he'd yet to see any real benefits. Sure, some of the stuff here was fun and he'd actually found himself better at it then he'd expected. But, for the most part, people constantly yelled at him, told him what to do and what to wear and where to go. And now this, dragged in front of Pike for a stupid bar fight.

Still, his options were limited. He could quit right now and go back to Iowa or he could at least try to show some contrition and convince Pike that he was taking this Starfleet thing seriously. He wasn't yet sure this was for him but he was damn sure he didn't want to run home having been kicked out of the Academy almost before he started. That would be hard to live down.

He forced himself to remain at attention. "Sir. I understand now that as a Starfleet cadet, I . . . shouldn't . . . shouldn't let myself . . ."

Pike gave him a look of disgust. "You told me that you were going to do the four-year Academy program in three years. I'll tell you something, Kirk, at the rate you're going, you're not going to last three more weeks."

Again Kirk remained silent, unmoving, eyes still focused straight ahead, blinking furiously to clear his vision, which still fuzzy from the blows to his face.

"Well," Pike finally said, "what do you have to say for yourself?"

What the hell was he supposed to say? "It won't happen again, sir." The words came out automatically, but even Jim wasn't sure he believed them. Maybe Pike had been wrong, maybe he was doomed to a life of bars and brawls and bad decisions.

The look of pity Pike gave him hurt worse than the anger, cut to his core. "You're damned right it won't," Pike said softly. "Because if it does, not only will you be headed back to Iowa before you can even spell the word, but I promise you that I'll personally pilot the transport that takes you there. Is that understood?"

It wasn't in his nature to back down and Pike undoubtedly appreciated that. It was also clear that Pike had hauled him in here not just to yell at him about the fight, but to make sure Jim realized that things were now different. The shit he'd gotten away with his entire life wouldn't fly anymore. If he wanted to take out his frustrations, from now on he'd be doing it on Starfleet's terms, not his. He either learned that in a hurry, or he'd be out of here in a hurry. Under those circumstances, it was probably best to say what Pike expected to hear and live to fight – oops – be a Starfleet cadet – another day.

He swallowed his pride. "Yes, sir, I understand."

Pike's eyes held his for a long moment, filled with a cross between resignation and hope. Finally, he turned away. "Then get the hell out of my office."


	2. A Call in the Night

_Year 1 – Kirk_

Only later would McCoy wonder whether answering that damn hail was the best or worst thing he'd ever done.

Leonard McCoy, MD, former trauma surgeon at Atlanta General Hospital and currently first year cadet at Starfleet Academy, was two steps away from the door to his dorm when the in-room comms unit sounded. He paused, debating whether to answer it. He was headed out to meet Lisa Ngo, a cadet in the engineering track with whom he shared a couple of introductory classes. They were going to grab a pizza while they sorted out the large number of completely uninteresting facts they needed to memorize in order to pass the "History of Starfleet" exam the next morning.

At some level, he couldn't believe he was doing this. He'd already spent more years of his life than he cared to count in schools of various kinds; yet here he was back in the classroom with a bunch of kids nearly a decade his junior. Not that the Academy was all bad – it was actually more like residency than med school in that much of his time was spent in the hospital caring for actual patients rather than studying theory. Still, there were certain first year classes required of all new cadets – even those with an M.D. after their names, and about the only way McCoy had found to make them bearable was to commiserate with his fellow students.

He was supposed to meet Lisa in ten minutes and the snack bar was halfway across campus; if he didn't leave right now, he'd be late. He took another step toward the door, hoping that whoever was hailing him would give up. He wasn't on call at the hospital and, besides, a work-related call would come directly to his personal communicator, not his room.

The comms unit continued its incessant buzzing. Someone was certainly determined to reach him. What the hell, might as well at least see who was being so persistent. The on-screen ID identified the caller as Eric Kinder. Who was that? McCoy racked his brain trying to remember if he was a fellow doctor, a nurse, a tech, or maybe someone in one of his classes. McCoy considered himself pretty good with names and this one didn't come close to ringing a bell.

He jabbed the intercom bringing Kinder's face into focus. Nope, didn't recognize him. "McCoy," he growled, now pissed at himself for even answering.

"Is this Dr. McCoy? Dr. Leonard McCoy?"

"Yes, it's _Doctor_ McCoy," he replied irritably. "Do I know you?"

"Uh, not exactly. I'm Eric Kinder, one of the new cadets. I'm calling about my roommate." There was a pause and the kid looked away from the video unit. "He needs a doctor."

McCoy rolled his eyes; he should never have taken the damn call. Too many Atlanta nights had been spent on unplanned late night visits to tend to sick friends and relatives when they would have been just as well off going to the nearest medical facility; he didn't plan to carry on that unfortunate tradition here. "That's why there's a clinic," he said in a tone reserved for recalcitrant children and non-compliant patients and resisting the urge to call the man a moron. "It's where cadets go when they're sick or injured."

"He won't go."

McCoy frowned and subconsciously pursed his lips. "What do you mean he won't go? Is he sick or isn't he?"

"He's not sick exactly, more like injured." Kinder's pained expression suggested that this call definitely wasn't his idea. "And he refuses to go to medical."

Time to take a different tack or he'd never make his meeting with Lisa. "Look, Kinder, there are probably a hundred doctors stationed at the Academy, including at least three on duty right now at the Clinic. Why are you calling _me_?"

"My roommate – Jim, Jim Kirk – he says he knows you from the transport." Kinder again looked away, then faced the screen. "Says to tell you that you nearly threw up on him, whatever that means."

Of course he remembered. The kid seated next to him on the ship from Iowa to the Academy – the one with the facial lacs that were obviously the product of a nasty fight that had probably occurred the night before the transport left. _That_ Jim Kirk.

"Yeah, I remember him all right. But I still don't understand what's going on, why you're calling _me_."

Kinder himself looked perplexed. "Honestly, Doc, I'm not sure either. All I know is that someone stuck a knife in his gut and he absolutely refuses—"

_What the hell?_ McCoy's eyes were suddenly riveted to the comms screen. "Did you say somebody stabbed him?"

"I'm no doctor but that's what he says and that's sure what it looks like."

"Dear God man, he needs medical attention stat. Call the emergency number. They'll come get him."

"NO!" came a strangled cry from somewhere off screen. Kirk, no doubt.

This was ridiculous. Any stab wound was serious and most were potentially life-threatening. The kid should have gone to medical right away; while they stood around arguing, he could be bleeding out.

"Let me talk to him," McCoy growled. Someone had to set this idiot straight.

A few seconds later, Kirk's face filled the screen. Yeah, it was definitely the guy from the shuttle. The kid was pale, McCoy noted clinically, his face contorted in pain. Looked like most of the stabbing victims he'd dealt with over the years – they uniformly needed medical care in a hurry.

"Hi, Doc."

_Hi Doc? _"Kirk." He used his no-nonsense physician's voice. "Stop being a moron. If you've been stabbed, you probably have a penetrating abdominal injury, which means you need to be at the clinic where you can get proper treatment. Right now."

"No clinic." Kirk panted with the effort to get out the words. "Not that bad."

McCoy's eyes narrowed. What was this guy's problem? "As a surgeon, I can tell you that any knife wound is bad. You need medical attention."

"Why . . . I called you."

"_At the_ _clinic_." he reiterated.

Kirk looked deflated. "Never mind. I'll . . . be okay."

_And you know that how? _He allowed the words to die in his throat. This debate was getting them nowhere. McCoy knew exactly what he should do under the circumstances both as a doctor and a Starfleet cadet – call the damned emergency number himself, which would bring qualified medical help within minutes.

Something in Kirk's demeanor kept him from making the call. The kid wasn't refusing medical attention – in fact, he was reaching out for it. He just didn't want to go to the clinic, didn't want to go through official channels, didn't want it reported . . .

McCoy silently cursed. Starfleet cadets weren't typically the victims of stabbings, which meant that Kirk had probably been somewhere he shouldn't be, doing something he shouldn't do. From the looks of the kid on the transport, and now this, that must be his _modus operandi_. No wonder Kirk didn't want to see the clinic staff, who'd be obligated to report any violent injury, including a stab wound. And that, in turn, wasn't likely to go well for one new Cadet Jim Kirk.

The transport conversation with Kirk hadn't been lengthy given that McCoy was more focused on not throwing up than making friends. From the outside, the kid was tough as nails, antagonizing the uniformed cadets and making clear at every opportunity that he hadn't yet bought into all this Starfleet shit. McCoy, however, couldn't shake the feeling that Kirk's exterior cockiness masked a fair bit of uncertainty and even a trace of desperation.

For Kirk to reach out to him, to ask for help on a personal level based on a single short transport flight. . . well, it wasn't something McCoy would have expected from the guy he met on the shuttle. That kid didn't need anyone's help, or at least would never admit to it. Now, only a few weeks later, that same kid was asking for help, McCoy's help. From a psychological perspective – and McCoy had endured his share of psych courses over the years – this was a good thing; "reaching out," the psych types liked to call it. McCoy didn't pretend to be an expert on Kirk's psych profile from a five-minute conversation but knew enough to realize that pushing him away at this juncture would likely stifle future attempts at reaching out – and McCoy had already seen enough of Starfleet to know that trying to make it through on your own would be tough.

Hell, if the kid was desperate enough to ask, McCoy was just unorthodox enough to oblige. After all, he was an experienced surgeon – a stab wound with a conscious patient was serious but probably nothing to tax his skills. If things were worse than he suspected, a call to Medical was always an option.

The thoughts passed through McCoy's mind in the instant it took to make his decision. "All right, it's against my better judgment, but I'll stop by and at least check you over. See what mess you've gotten yourself into this time," he added, making sure Kirk knew he hadn't forgotten his disorderly appearance on the transport.

On the screen, Kirk sighed in obvious relief, a smile briefly crossing his lips. Inwardly, McCoy returned the smile; outwardly, he scowled and gave the kid his sternest look. "And if _I _decide you need to go to Medical," he continued, "you'll go if I have to put you in the damn ambulance myself."

This, McCoy thought to himself, as he closed out the comms link and grabbed his medikit, should be interesting and, if nothing else, sure beat studying for a stupid exam.


	3. A Decision

The distance from his dorm to Kirk's was mercifully short. Even with a brief stop at the hospital to grab some supplies, McCoy approached Kirk's room ten minutes after Kinder's call, hoping that his judgment about Kirk wasn't misplaced.

Kirk's double room on the second floor of the barracks that housed first-year cadets was slightly larger than his own single – a small living space, an even smaller kitchen and eating area, and a bedroom that seemed overwhelmed by the twin beds. Décor was monotone, uninspired and cheap – designed more to resist damage than to provide comfort. Kinder's half of the bedroom was littered with holopics and mementos; Kirk's side, by contrast, was almost devoid of personal items. McCoy noted only a single picture of an woman – probably Kirk's mother – hugging a toddler – probably Kirk – on the dresser.

He nodded a brief greeting to Kinder, wondering if first-year roommates had been assigned alphabetically by last name. Crossing quickly to Kirk's bed, his eyes examined his newest patient. Kirk lay on his side, knees drawn up, hands clutched tightly against the lower left side of his abdomen. He looked even whiter in person than he had on the comms screen. Lips were pressed together, jaw tight, eyes glazed in a manner that McCoy associated with significant pain.

Nonetheless, the kid managed a tight smile. "Thanks for coming."

He in turn only managed to roll his eyes and shake his head at the same time. "Yeah, yeah. Idiots born every day." He dropped his oversized bag onto the floor and pulled a chair into the tiny aisle between the two beds, pressing Kirk onto his back and pushing aside his hands. "Let me see."

Retrieving surgical scissors from his bag, McCoy carefully cut away the clothing around the injury. The puncture wound was small and neat, not too much blood, which meant any bleeding was mostly internal. Still, the wound didn't look too bad. His probing, while gentle, elicited a few hisses.

"Sorry, kid," he said in a voice that lacked any real sympathy, "it's gonna hurt worse before I'm done."

"I'm okay. Just stings a bit."

Right. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you've ever had and one meaning that you're obviously lying to me, how much pain are you in?"

Kirk stared at him for a minute, probably trying to decide how much dissembling he could get away with. "Five," he finally grunted.

Given what he'd seen of the kids' injuries on the shuttle, Kirk's five probably meant at least a seven, which is what McCoy expected with this type of injury. There was only the one visible wound. His eyes fixed on Kirk, doctor to patient. "You hurt anywhere else?"

Kirk shook his head. "Nah."

"Then you're a damn lucky SOB." McCoy pulled out his scanner and tricorder. A quick check of his patient's vitals showed Kirk's BP was in the tank, a strong indicator of internal bleeding. Alcohol level was okay – surprisingly, the kid wasn't even close to being drunk – and the pain level was higher than he'd like – which meant that Kirk had a higher pain tolerance than he'd suspected. He moved the scanner over Kirk's abdomen, examining the wound more closely, and confirming the internal bleeding. The good news was that the entry was clean – weapon was probably a switchblade of some type – and there wasn't obvious damage to the internal organs. He'd seen a lot worse, but he still needed to get the hemorrhaging under control or the kid would eventually bleed out.

Kirk's eyes met his. "Not too bad, right?" The strain in his voice was obvious.

McCoy frowned. "A penetrating stab wound is never good." He grabbed a hypo from his bag, loaded it with an analgesic and positioned it over Kirk's neck.

Without warning, Kirk's hand grabbed onto his, grip firm as steel, refusing to allow him closer. _What the hell?_ "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

"No hypos."

McCoy grimaced at the apprehension in Kirk's voice. "It's just something for the pain," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

"Don't like hypos."

McCoy shook his head, unsure whether Kirk was trying to demonstrate his toughness, had some irrational fear of modern injection technique, or something else. It didn't matter. As long as he was here, he'd be the one to decide what medical treatment Kirk needed. He favored Kirk with a stony glare. "You want my help or don't you?"

Kirk bit his lip and nodded.

"Then we do it my way."

Kirk gave the hypo another look of contempt but removed his hand. Finished with the injection, McCoy's gaze returned to his patient. The best place to repair a stab wound was a proper medical facility and it was his duty as a doctor to try to convince his patient of that fact. "You're bleeding internally. You need surgery and that means you should be in a hospital."

Kirk grabbed his arm, eyes wide and pleading. "No. Can't."

"I'm not asking your opinion."

Kirk's eyes flicked nervously toward his roommate. McCoy read the apprehension and responded with a glance over his shoulder. "Can you give us a minute?"

"Sure." Kinder seemed more than happy to escape. In fairness, he'd done more to help Kirk than most roommates of less than a month probably would have.

The instant the door closed, McCoy turned on Kirk. "Don't be an idiot. You're bleeding into your belly which means need surgery and that, young man, means a trip to the OR."

Kirk turned to the wall. "They'll kick me out."

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Of the OR?" The sarcasm was evident.

"The Academy."

"I'm not following you."

"Pike warned me . . . no more chances."

Now he understood; it was essentially what he'd suspected. This obviously wasn't Kirk's first misstep since arriving at the Academy. Pike had laid down the law – the next time Kirk screwed up would be the last. And, despite the warning, Kirk had obviously screwed up again. McCoy mentally shook his head – if the kid couldn't keep his temper under control, if getting punched in the nose and stabbed in the gut were the norm, maybe he shouldn't be here.

"You should have thought about that before you picked a fight in a bar." McCoy's words were harsh, his tone a bit more gentle.

"Not my fault."

"I'm a doctor; not a judge. I just patch 'em up."

"So patch me up."

"Look, Kirk—"

"Jim."

It was easier to think of the kid as Kirk or simply the patient. No need to get personal. "This isn't closing a couple of cuts. You need to be in a sterile environment with anesthesia monitoring and nursing staff, not to mention that surgery outside of an operating room isn't exactly ideal for the doctor or the patient. It's almost impossible to maintain asepsis – sterile conditions – and that makes post-surgical infection a distinct possibility. You're also prone to surgical complications that I might not be able to manage, such as excessive bleeding and a dangerous drop in blood pressure."

Kirk turned his head toward the wall. "Go."

He raised an eyebrow. First, Kirk demanded he make a housecall; now, the same guy was trying to send him away?

"Go. Get out of here. It's not your problem. I'll just get you in trouble. I shouldn't have called you in the first place."

While that was undoubtedly true, now that he was here, he couldn't very well leave the kid lying here with a hole in his gut. Goddamn it to hell. McCoy sighed, a long poignant sigh that he hoped showed the kid he was more than a little pissed by the turn of events. "Well you did call me, and now I'm here, and for better or worse you're my medical responsibility." He sighed yet again. "And I've got to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about you."


	4. Helping Hands

**_Kirk -- Year 1 (continued)_**

McCoy could not believe he was about to perform surgery on Kirk's kitchen table when a fully-equipped OR stood only meters away. There was battlefield surgery and then there was . . . this. If anyone ever found out, getting kicked out of Starfleet would be only the beginning. He'd probably lose his medical license.

Then again, if he managed not to get kicked out of the Academy for tabletop surgery – or insubordination – he was likely to face many situations exactly like this one in Starfleet – well, maybe not exactly like this one, but certainly times when he'd have to care for patients and even operate outside the confines of his medical bay. He'd correctly warned Kirk that complications were a distinct possibility but hadn't told him that field surgery for something like this wasn't as dangerous as it might sound. Still, this wasn't Starfleet-authorized battlefield surgery and, ultimately, he was risking his career for a guy he barely knew. Yet, as a doctor, he'd sworn to care for the sick and injured whoever they were and wherever he found them. For now that meant an impetuous cadet with a knife wound on a kitchen table in an Academy dorm, a cadet who'd taken a huge step, for him at least, in asking McCoy to take this risk. Damn it all.

"Lucky for you, you sat next to the one guy on the shuttle who happened to be a surgeon – and a damn good one, I might add." He loaded a hypo. "This is a local anesthetic," he explained. "You should have general anesthesia, but given that I don't have the proper instruments or people to monitor you, this'll have to do." This time, the kid didn't complain when the hypo was pressed to his hip. Reaching into his bag, McCoy retrieved the field surgical kit, which contained almost everything he'd need for this procedure. If nothing else, Starfleet prepared its medical personnel for disasters.

Based on what the scanner and tricorder had shown, the surgery shouldn't be complicated, which was the only reason he'd even considered performing it here. What concerned him was that the simplest operations always seemed to cause the worst complications, and even a minor problem could quickly become a major crisis in this environment. He'd considered using Kinder as an assistant but the boy clearly wanted no part of whatever was going to happen and had been more than happy to leave the doctor to his work.

He'd helped Kirk strip – no sense risking infection from dirty clothes – and now Kirk's eyes followed him as he covered his patient with sterile drapes, set up the surgical field, and checked his instruments. McCoy looked down at his hands. Shit, no sterilizer. He hadn't risked trying to "borrow" a field sterilizer from the clinic so he'd have to use the kitchen sink to scrub the old-fashioned way.

Finally satisfied, or at least as satisfied as he could be under the circumstances, McCoy returned to Kirk's side picked up a laser scalpel and focused on the point on the abdomen where he'd make his initial incision.

"The local I gave you should hold," he said. "But, if it doesn't, if you start to feel any pain at all, let me know right away. This isn't the time to play hero. Got it?"

"Yeah, Sawbones."

McCoy's head swung around. "What?"

"Field surgery like the old sawbones."

Just what he needed – a sassy, talkative patient. "I didn't realize you were a student of medical history. And, I'd like to think that ten years practicing modern surgery puts me a little ahead of those ancient docs."

Kirk simply grinned. "Still a sawbones."

"Well, hold still or I'll end up sawing off _your_ bones instead of repairing this wound." Despite his serious tone, Kirk's words had helped relieve a tiny bit of the tension he felt. There was something about this kid that made it hard to stay angry with him.

He refocused on the surgery at hand, the incision he needed to make, the surgical plan he'd follow. He pressed the laser scalpel onto the skin, slicing cleanly through the dermis. The first step was local wound exploration – opening up the cut and checking how deeply the weapon had penetrated. Once he'd made the first incision, the rest came automatically and he dissected quickly through layers of skin, the scalpel cauterizing as it cut.

Widening the incision, he inserted retractors, using voice commands to create the appropriate surgical field. Interchanging the scalpel for probes and hemostats, occasionally clearing bleeders with gauze and sealants, he continued his exploration deeper into Kirk's abdomen, tossing used instruments onto the surgical tray. Operating without an assistant presented certain challenges but, with the advantages of modern medicine, it wasn't as difficult as one might expect. McCoy had performed this surgery many times and, while the environment was a bit unusual, the technique itself was the same, creating a certain comfort in the familiarity of his hands smoothly guiding instruments through the human body.

Still, the recognition that one misstep, one unexpected finding or complication, could create havoc, kept him on edge. He couldn't afford to become complacent, to forget that he wasn't in the OR, didn't have extra hands and modern machines in the same room or down the hall. At the moment, the only thing standing between Kirk and disaster was his focus, concentration and skill.

Kirk hadn't said a word since the surgery had started and McCoy now checked to see if he was still awake. Tired, trusting eyes stared back at him. Maybe he should at least let his patient know what was happening. "What I'm doing here, Kirk—"

"Jim."

"What I'm doing here, Jim, is following the tract of the injury to its endpoint. If we're lucky, the blade didn't penetrate too far into your gut. Otherwise, we may be here awhile." He pressed his instruments deeper into the abdominal cavity, driving toward the fascia, the covering of the abdominal muscle. If that was undamaged, his work would be limited to sealing the remaining bleeders. If not . . . he'd probably regret his decision to operate under these conditions.

"That's me, lucky – ahh!"

McCoy pulled the probe out of the wound and whipped his eyes to Kirk's. "You felt that, didn't you?"

"S'ok. I can take it."

"Shit, kid, I don't want you to take it. Last thing I need is you twitching while I've got a scalpel in your gut." McCoy mentally cursed. He'd underestimated the dosage for the local – mostly because he'd never before performed this surgery under anything other than a general anesthetic. He needed to inject more anesthetic, but doing so required breaking the sterile field, which meant he'd have to rescrub and leave the wound open while he did so. In the sterile OR, that wasn't a problem. Here . . . Damn, what he'd give for an assistant right now; he should have made that Kinder fellow stick around.

The best option wasn't a good one. He covered the open wound with a sterile dressing, clenching his jaw in frustration. "Okay, kid, I'm going to give you some more of the good stuff, then I'll need to rescrub, and while I'm doing that you need to hold absolutely still. Got it?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

McCoy felt himself strangely touched by the apology and couldn't repress a grudging admiration for what Kirk was going through. Here he was lying on an uncomfortable table, feet dangling over the edge, while someone he barely knew operated on his gut. He was awake through it all and he'd yet to complain. One thing he'd learned about Jim Kirk – the kid was tough.

Grabbing the hypo, he gave Kirk the necessary injection. A few minutes later, freshly scrubbed and having assured himself that his patient's vitals remained stable – God alone knew how – McCoy returned to the task at hand, reminding himself of the strong possibility of infection and making a mental note to give Kirk a hefty dose of prophylactic antibiotics when this damn surgery was over.

As his probe reached the outer lining of the abdominal wall, he gave an involuntary sigh of relief at the realization that the switchblade hadn't penetrated too deeply into the abdominal cavity and the remaining surgery would be minimal in scope. This was going to be okay after all. "Hey kid, you're right about being lucky. Wound isn't as bad as it looked."

There was no reply; the kid was asleep. About damn time. McCoy nodded in satisfaction and reached for a protoplaser. Time to seal off the remaining bleeders and then get the hell out of this kid's gut.


	5. A Little Insight

_Year 1 – Kirk (continued)_

An hour later, Kirk lay back in his bed while McCoy rechecked the wound. The sealant was holding, antibiotics were on board, there was no fever and nothing to indicate internal bleeding. For now, Kirk was stable; they'd both been fortunate.

"God knows you're a tough SOB," he said, his tone intentionally a combination of reproach and admiration, as he covered the kid, now back in a T-shirt and loose fitting pants, with a light blanket. "Don't know many folks who've endured open abdominal surgery with only a local."

Kirk couldn't resist a smile at the half-compliment. "You did all the work. I just lay there."

"So tell me how you got hurt."

Kirk's eyes lazily focused on his. "Thought you didn't care."

McCoy sighed. "As a doctor, I don't. As someone who'd like to make sure that kitchen table surgery doesn't become routine for either of us, a little insight into your thought processes might be useful."

"I was at a bar."

Eyes rolled skyward. "Really?"

Kid didn't even blink. "Only had two Romulan ales."

While the ale packed quite a punch, McCoy knew from his tricorder readings that Kirk hadn't been drunk. "Go on."

"One of the guys started hitting on this girl. She didn't like it."

"And of all of the guys in the bar, you had to come to her defense." McCoy didn't try to hide the sarcasm.

"How'd you guess?"

"Experience."

"We had a few words, pushed each other around a bit." Kirk related the story as if he'd told it a hundred times before, which, McCoy suspected, he probably had. "I thought everything was good. And it was, until I left the bar."

"He was waiting for you outside." Matter of fact.

"They were. Grabbed me from behind." Kirk's voice still lacked any hint of emotion. He could have been reading a shuttlecraft passenger list. "One guy held me while the other stuck me in the gut. Said they wanted to teach me not to fuck with them."

McCoy pursed his lips as if to whistle. Two pissed guys against one guy – a tough guy but still only one. Two versus one was never good odds. "They could easily have killed you."

"That thought crossed my mind."

"Have you given that same thought to staying away from bars?"

"Not really."

Suddenly, McCoy felt older than his years. "Look, kid. It's none of my business, but if you want to have any kind of career in Starfleet, you've got to keep your nose clean."

"You sound like Pike," Kirk replied in a dismissive tone.

"I sound like the guy who just put your insides back together. Had that knife penetrated a few centimeters deeper, it would have caused massive internal bleeding and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Look, Bones, I'm not some wuss—"

"What did you call me?"

"Bones, Sawbones. What do you want me to call you?"

"I want you not to call me. And maybe you should start acting like someone on his way to becoming a Starfleet officer and not some juvenile delinquent looking for a fight."

Kirk's eyes twinkled as much as his weakened state would allow. "You could always come with me."

McCoy's eyes narrowed, trying to gauge Kirk's state of mind. Challenging, he finally decided. Daring, even. "What?"

"Come with me when I go out. Keep me out of trouble."

McCoy shook his head. "Not my job. Besides, I'm too old for that shit. Some of us have hospital shifts to cover and crap to study so we can become Starfleet officers." He scrutinized Kirk carefully, noting that the kid was tiring. "Speaking of which, I _do_ need to study for my exam and you need to rest." He started to pack up his instruments. "What classes do you have tomorrow?"

Kirk shrugged. "The usual -- Intro to Navigation, Principles of Warp Drive, Basic Hand-to-Hand—"

"You are not doing hand-to-hand combat tomorrow; you'll tear open that wound." Kirk started to interrupt but he kept right on talking over any potential objections. "I'll give you some pain meds for tonight and be back first thing in the morning to check on you. And then you'll report to sickcall and tell them you think you have the flu."

"No way."

Kirk had used up more than enough goodwill for one night and McCoy was in no mood to argue. "You'll do exactly what I tell you or I'll call the clinic right now and have them pick you up. You can spend the night there for all I care."

The no-nonsense tone did the trick. Kirk gave him a sullen look but kept his mouth shut.

With a grunt of satisfaction at his victory, McCoy continued talking, his voice a bit softer. "I'll be on morning sickcall duty; make sure you ask for me. I need to run the dermal regenerator over that wound. In the meantime," he loaded another hypo, "you need to sleep and give your body a chance to heal."

"Can't we skip the hypo?"

McCoy smacked his lips. "What is it with you and hypos?" 

"They hurt."

McCoy wasn't buying that as the whole explanation but tonight wasn't the time to get into the psychological reasons behind Kirk's hatred of injections.

"Not as bad as getting beat up in bars," he replied. "I'll set your comms unit for my number. You start to hurt, if anything doesn't feel right, call me right away. Got it?"

"Yeah, Bones."

McCoy jabbed the sedative a bit harder than he needed to. Bones? Sounded like someone with two feet in the grave – not exactly a comforting image for a physician. He gathered up the rest of his supplies and quietly moved to the door.

"Hey, Bones."

He turned back around – would the kid never go to sleep?

"Thanks. I owe you one."

McCoy shook his head. "Do me a favor, kid; don't pay me back. Not sure I can take it."


	6. Didn't Sign Up for This

Author's Note: This story is divided into the three years Kirk & McCoy spent at Starfleet Academy. Each year is further divided into three segments: one focusing on Kirk, one on McCoy and an on-call segment, which focuses McCoy as a doctor.

_Year 1 – McCoy_

McCoy sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him, definitely faster than he'd run anytime in the last few years, boots kicking up dust as he skidded across the dry, open field. Muscles protested and feet ached as he struggled to maintain his balance on the uneven terrain. He hurdled a small crevasse, avoided a mass of gravel, and leapt over the remnants of scraggly plant life, forcing himself forward. Without warning, a neon blue light flashed, a live phaser passing next to his right shin; the telltale whine came a fraction of a second later. Shit, that was way too close. He pivoted, changed direction, kept his feet moving, and did his best to scurry away from the threat.

The target was twenty meters ahead on his right – a low stone wall that would protect him from attack and put him in position to return fire. Return fire? First, he needed to reach the shelter without getting himself killed.

The shortest distance between two points was always a direct route. He knew that and so did whoever was trying to kill him. Running fast and direct wasn't working so he swerved, slowed, and tried to confuse the enemy. It seemed his only chance.

"Keep down!" a commanding voice shouted behind him.

That's right. Somehow he was expected to duck while running as fast as he could and weaving back and forth as quickly as possible. He dropped his head, trying to keep an eye on whatever was in front of him, looking for cover, for bad guys, whatever the hell he was supposed to be looking for.

Zing! Another phaser beam passed above him, where his head had been a minute before. He was sucking wind, trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to do next. Anything to get away from the relentless attacker whose aim was getting better even as the phaser shots got closer. Another blue stream headed toward him, this one striking his right shoulder, producing a mild shock and a sharp claxon, letting everyone know he was hit. Dammit.

"They've zeroed in on you. Drop! Get your head and body down now!"

McCoy threw himself to the ground, doing his best to hug his body into the mud and dirt, making himself as invisible as possible. He tried to ignore the grime that covered his lips and was slowly being sucked into his nostrils with each breath. His knees hurt, his hipbones hurt, hell, his entire body hurt. The phaser hit the ground just behind him. He crawled, hands and feet pumping his torso forward, face and arms scratching against the rocky ground.

Zing! They'd fixed on his position and now there was nowhere to go. The third strike caught him squarely in the back with a resounding sting and a pink neon light that signaled a direct hit. Goddammit to hell. He was dead. By McCoy's count – and he was counting – this was the eighth time he'd gone through this exercise.

"Cadet McCoy!"

And, as was evident by the exasperation in Lt. Sanchez' voice, the eighth time he'd screwed it up. He scrambled to his feet, came to some semblance of attention, and looked down at the instructor who'd appeared out of nowhere to stand in front of him. A head shorter than McCoy, Lt. Sanchez nonetheless towered over him through sheer force of personality. The course instructor for Intro to Combat had become more than a little frustrated with McCoy's inability to successfully complete what, in her view, should be a simple element of the class.

It probably didn't help matters that she was also the lieutenant on the transport from Iowa who'd had to threaten him to get him into his seat. "Sit down or I'll make you sit down," she'd ordered then and, at the time, he'd believed her more than capable of making good on her threat. Having now spent several days under her tutelage, he was convinced she could make him do almost anything. Like run this course again. He stood at attention, cursing himself for panting like a tired dog.

She stood directly in front of him, not a hair out of place, hands on hips, eyes blazing. "Cadet, you don't seem to be taking this course seriously. What you learn here may very well one day save your life or the life of one of your shipmates. I think that's pretty damn important, don't you?"

He swallowed a gulp of air. "Yes, ma'am."

"You think doctors should have some special exemption? You think that just because you've got that damn medikit in your hand, the bad guys aren't going to take a shot at you?"

Well, that's what he'd thought when he'd joined Starfleet. His recruiter definitely hadn't told him that people might shoot at him. This probably wasn't the time to point out that fact to Sanchez. "No, ma'am."

"Because, I'll tell you something, Cadet, from experience. You're the first guy they're going to take out. Kill the doctor and more wounded will die. Do you get me?"

"Yes, ma'am." He got it if he didn't exactly believe it. From what he'd been told, medical staff were supposed to have a protected status and why anyone would want to kill the doctor when there were still live combatants – it just didn't make sense. No doubt she was trying to put the fear of God into him in order to get him to give more effort on the course or, maybe she knew something he didn't, which rather worried him.

"The next time I tell you to hit the dirt, I expect you do to it as if your goddamn life depends on it. Bury yourself like a mole. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"In the meantime, why don't you push out fifty."

McCoy groaned inwardly. Another 50 pushups. Instructors weren't allowed to physically abuse cadets, or so they'd said. Extra PT was considered conditioning, not abuse. He's already "pushed out" at least 200 today alone to atone for various screwups, and his arms and back were starting to ache. No wonder he'd been slow in diving to the ground; after three days of this, he could barely move. Of course, he didn't say any of this aloud. No use pissing off Sanchez more than she already was. There were certainly worse things she could make him do than a few lousy pushups, and he wasn't keen to find out what they were.

"Aye, aye, ma'am." It was the appropriate response to an order – that had been beaten into him during indoc – but he couldn't resist allowing a bit of sarcasm to creep into his voice. It still grated on him to be forced to obey someone who was younger and probably not as smart as he was. He was a surgeon used to giving orders, not taking them. He dropped to the resting position, with only his palms and toes touching the ground, and counted out the pushups, as was expected of cadets who messed up. This was something his recruiter had definitely failed to mention.

"One, two, three . . . ." Why in the hell was he doing this? "Nine, ten, eleven." He was a doctor, not a commando, for godsake. "Eighteen, nineteen." Lt. Sanchez, at least five years his junior, was treating him like an incompetent fool. Which, when it came to self-defense, he was. "Twenty-six." Damn, these pushups were getting harder. He was too old for this shit. He held himself in the resting position, arms and back stiff and straight, allowing his arms a break from the punishment.

"McCoy, push 'em out. Don't be a wimp."

A wimp. The damned bitch had called him a wimp. And he knew that all of the other cadets in the class, the ones who'd managed to get through the basic course that he'd failed, most of them on their first attempt, probably also considered him a wimp. "Thirty-one." A dozen epithets froze on McCoy's lips. "Thirty-two." He was a surgeon, not some toy for this kid to play with. "Thirty-three." As soon as he finished this damn lesson. "Thirty-four." He'd quit. "Thirty-five." Starfleet. "Thirty-six." Put in his papers and get the hell out of here.

"Thirty-seven." His shoulders and arms fucking burned. He couldn't do another pushup and yet he wouldn't give Sanchez the satisfaction of quitting. Frozen in the resting position, he contemplated his limited options.

"Come on, you can do this," came a familiar voice beside him. "Don't quit now." Not daring to move his torso for fear of toppling out of the resting position and having to start over, McCoy turned only his head to see who'd spoken. Shit, it was Kirk. He'd barely seen the kid in the weeks since he'd cleaned up that stab wound. Command and medical cadets didn't have many opportunities to mix at the Academy; however, because this was an introductory course, cadets from all areas were placed alphabetically regardless of specialty, which is how Kirk and McCoy somehow ended up together in this class.

The combat techniques seemed to come naturally to Kirk, which hadn't surprised McCoy. The kid was probably born fighting. During his own youth, McCoy had always been one of the bigger guys in his class – folks assumed he could kick ass and thus generally left him alone. He could probably hold his own in a fight for a few minutes with inexperienced opponents, but wouldn't score many knockouts. Running an obstacle course while simultaneously trying to defend himself against folks trying to kill him with phasers was entirely unfamiliar.

"Do them with me," Kirk repeated, settling into the push-up resting position beside him.

"Can't," he whispered, trying to decide how he felt about the kid having to come to his fucking aid. One thing that was permitted at the Academy was helping out your classmates; the trick was to do so without coming across as a showoff.

"Cadet McCoy," Sanchez's voice above him was derisive. "The entire class is waiting for you to crank out fifty lousy pushups." McCoy could feel eighteen sets of cadet eyes watching him with disdain.

"Bones, ignore her. Focus on my voice. Thirty-eight. Do them with me. Come on." Kirk dropped, his chest nearly touching the ground, and easily pressed himself back into the resting position. McCoy was certain the kid could do 500 pushups, or 5000, if need be. Damn him for his youth, his fitness, just damn him in general.

McCoy could not quit in front of the kid, or Sanchez, or the rest of the class for that matter. He pressed his body down and then slowly and painfully pushed himself upward, arms shaking, trying to ignore the burn in his deltoids and the shame on his face. "Thirty-eight," he hissed.

"Thirty-nine. Come on, do it."

I can't, his body screamed even as he bit down on his lip and somehow eked out one more. "Thirty-nine," he repeated.

"Forty. Down and up. You're almost done."

Sanchez said something but McCoy's attention was riveted on Kirk's voice, the fluid motion of Kirk's body easily doing the pushups even as his own jerked and twisted with the effort.

"Only nine more to go."

And then it was eight as McCoy continued to latch onto the voice. Kirk refused to let him quit, was determined to talk him through this miserable exercise. It was okay; these would be the last goddamn pushups he would ever do. "Forty-five." Starfleet could take their pushups, their phasers, their stupid history classes, and shove them all . . . "Fifty." He was done.

Gingerly he pulled himself into a standing position. Next to him, Kirk jumped to his feet and quickly resumed his place in the class lineup as if nothing had happened.

"About time, McCoy," Sanchez said. "You need to get in shape, mister." She nodded at the refreshment table. "Get some water then get yourself back here and let's try to get it right this time."


	7. A Challenge

_Year 1 – McCoy (continued)_

"That's it," McCoy said a few hours later as he and Jim walked back toward their dorms. He was as filthy, sweaty and physically exhausted as he'd ever been. Every inch of his body ached, a soreness that went deep to the bone and would only worsen by morning, no matter how many analgesics and muscle relaxants he pumped in.

He'd tried to act nonchalant as the other cadets had all eyed him, making sure they wouldn't include him in any team challenge, if they were given any choice in the matter. It was like being the last kid chosen for a playground game. That humiliation smoldered within him, and he couldn't quite decide if he felt better or worse because he'd had to rely on Kirk to get him through it. Until now, he'd always been the smartest in his class, and often the fastest as well, always able to do it on his own. Failure on this level was . . . unknown and equally unpleasant.

He wasn't exactly sure why doctors, especially surgeons, needed to be able to run and shoot like the command and security types. After all, they didn't expect engineers to perform surgery. However, Starfleet, in its infinite wisdom thought it was necessary and he was quickly coming to realize that Starfleet, like any military organization, had its rules and traditions. And Leonard McCoy wasn't likely to change them. Thus, he either got on board or found someplace else to ply his trade.

"_What_ is it?" Kirk asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"Huh?"

"You said, 'that's it.' I was asking _what_ was it?"

"I'm out of here."

Kirk looked around at the open expanse of the training grounds. "Out of where?"

"Starfleet. I've had enough of this. I signed on to practice medicine, not crawl around in the dirt all day and take orders from some pipsqueak with an inferiority complex."

"Whoa, Bones, slow down." 

He stopped in midstride, eyes blazing. "And will you stop calling me that!"

Kirk grinned. "You didn't seem to mind when you were cranking out the pushups."

McCoy had the good sense to at least look contrite. "Yeah, well," he grumbled, "I wasn't thinking about much of anything other than getting away from Sanchez before I strangled her. So I guess I owe you one on that score."

"You did them yourself. I only provided moral support."

"I don't give a shit; I'm not doing it anymore. I signed up to be a Starfleet doctor, not a boy scout on some adventure outing. I'll put in my letter in the morning and—" 

Kirk's eyes widened. "And do what?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Find somewhere where I can practice medicine. Anywhere but here."

"Leonard, it's only your first week of the course. You've never done this shit before. No one expects you to be good at it right off the bat."

Something about Kirk calling him Leonard sounded all wrong. "Well, that's perfect," he replied, knowing that he was sulking, "because I suck at it."

Kirk held up his hands. "Hey, I know self-defense isn't your thing. But it's only one course and it makes sense to have all Starfleet officers have at least some personal combat training."

Shit, Kirk was now rationalizing his failure.

The kid was still talking. "I'll grant you that Sanchez is an ass—"

Sanchez was more than an ass, she was the bane of his existence. "An ass who wants my ass on a platter," he said with a touch of spite. "She's had it in for me after I mouthed off to her on the transport."

Kirk grinned back at him. "She does seem to take a particular liking to you."

"At the rate I'm going, I'm going to fail the course. And when I do, they'll kick me out." He sighed in resignation. "I might as well quit before that happens."

Kirk's expression suddenly turned serious. "Look, you saved my butt after that bar thing, kept me in Starfleet. Let me return the favor."

McCoy shook his head. "No thanks, I'd rather leave."

"You don't really want to leave."

McCoy detected an element of concern in Kirk's tone, almost as if the _kid_ didn't want him to leave. "Yeah, actually I do."

Kirk wasn't about to give up. "This is just one stupid course, after that you can go back to your doctoring. I can help you pass. There are some tricks I can teach you—" 

The kid was wearing him out, or at least wearing him down. "I'm not a dog. I don't want to learn tricks. I don't want to learn how to shoot people. I want—"

"Leonard, I don't need to tell you that Starfleet isn't about what any of us wants."

"_James_, you sound like the damn instructors."

"At least give it a chance." Kirk was now almost pleading. "Let me try to teach you a few things, see how it goes. Pass the course and then quit. At least it'll be on your terms."

McCoy shook his head. "Even you can't help me pass this course."

"I'll make you a deal. If you pass, you stay and you let me call you whatever I want. Leonard, Bones, Doc, whatever."

McCoy rolled his eyes. If truth be told, he didn't really want to quit Starfleet. First, he wasn't a quitter; the only thing he'd ever quit in his life was his marriage, and that didn't count. Or at least counted only for half given that his ex was a party to that failure. And, crazy as Starfleet might be, he was starting to get into it – well, except for the self-defense course – starting to enjoy the challenges of treating exotic patients and even more exotic diseases, the research and, at some level, even the people, though he'd never admit that. While he hadn't made any close friends, he nonetheless was coming to admire and respect these Starfleet types, folks like Jim who seemed willing to risk everything they had for adventure and the higher goal that was universal peace. As insane as he occasionally found these men and women, there was also a sense of pride and fulfillment in being their physician. And he needed to pass this stupid course in order to continue practicing the medicine that he loved, or at least to practice it here.

Even more important, the kid seemed determined to help him, almost desperate to do so. McCoy tried to sort out what was going on. After that bar stabbing, was Kirk merely anxious to prove his worth to McCoy? Was he trying to repay McCoy for the unorthodox surgery? Or, for some inexplicable reason, did Kirk want McCoy to stay in Starfleet? Was he actually trying to make a friend? Whatever the reason, it wouldn't hurt to let Kirk try to teach him a few "tricks" and it might just help – both him and the kid.

"And if I fail?" McCoy asked, his mind already made up. "If I still fail the course?"

Kirk tilted his head with a shrug. "Then I guess it won't matter what I call you."


	8. Pact with the Devil

It took less than two days for McCoy to convince himself that he'd made a pact with the devil. The Starfleet combat course was three days a week -- three days a week with the sadist Sanchez left four days for Kirk to torture him even worse.

"Don't jerk the firing button," Kirk reminded him for probably the twentieth time today. "Squeeze it slowly. The beam should come as a surprise."

McCoy tried to squeeze. The damned phaser jerked in his hands, causing the beam to fly well over the target.

"Gentle. It should be a caress."

Fuck. He caressed girls, not a weapon designed to kill people. His next attempt was rewarded with another jerk and another wild miss.

Kirk's voice remained steady. "Try taking a full ten seconds to squeeze the trigger. Count it out."

Well, it was better than counting pushups; at least Jim hadn't made him do those. Jim – McCoy had occasionally started to call the kid by his first name – was a relentless instructor, constantly pushing him to do things better, faster and with more accuracy. What Jim hadn't done, no matter how many times McCoy had failed, was get angry or lose his composure. It was, McCoy realized, a quality he'd never imagined the kid possessed. In an odd way, he was a natural teacher or, maybe it was more accurate to say, a natural leader.

For the moment, McCoy concentrated on squeezing slowly. It was totally unlike what he did with his laser scalpels and protoplasers; this movement was completely foreign. One, two, three. It was almost physically painful to turn what should be a quick flick of his finger into a long, drawn out squeezing motion, and frustration worked its way into his joints. Why couldn't he just press the damn thing? Four, five. Zap. Damn.

"Hey, that was good," Jim replied, a note of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. "Look." He pointed toward the target. The mark was still off center but a hell of a lot closer than he'd managed to date. Maybe the kid was onto something.

"Let me try again," McCoy said, suddenly encouraged. Despite what Sanchez or the other cadets thought, he was taking the course seriously and hated failure. Kirk had somehow recognized that and was trying to tap into it. Nonetheless, despite McCoy's renewed focus, his shots remained off target.

"You're concentrating too hard," Kirk said. "Think about something else while you're squeezing the trigger. You want it to come naturally."

Again he tried, thinking about his next ER shift, his xeno-anatomy class, getting his uniforms pressed for inspection. And again. And again. He was still missing the mark. Badly.

"Don't look at the results." Damn, the kid was reading his mind. "Focus on squeezing, nothing else."

Again he squeezed as slowly as he possibly could.

"So, what's Lisa Ngo like?"

Eyes flicked to Jim, who leaned against the barrier wall as if he'd settled in for a long afternoon. "Huh?"

"Keep squeezing. What's she like?"

"I don't know. She's nice, decent looking. Understands quantum mechanics, which is more than I can say—" The beam shot out from the phaser. It was so unexpected, it was all McCoy could do not to drop the damn thing. "What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded. "I was trying to focus."

Kirk was smiling, grinning, actually.

"What the hell are you grinning at?" McCoy followed Kirk's gaze to the target. Holy shit. He hadn't hit the bull's eye, but he'd come damned close.

"Let's try that again," Jim said calmly.

*****

"Dive!"

McCoy hit the dirt, trying to make his large frame as small as possible, which wasn't an easy task.

"When you dive to the ground," Kirk had explained at the start of this exercise, "you're trying to hide, make yourself part of the ground. Dig yourself into the dirt and stay absolutely still. Snipers look for movement; move and they'll lock onto you before you finish twitching."

Kirk had proceeded to demonstrate, making it look so smooth, so easy that McCoy had to bite back his envy. Too soon, it was McCoy's turn to imitate the movements.

He lay prostrate on the ground, Jim's foot pressing onto his lower back, grinding hipbones and thighs into the dirt. "Stay there." A hand clamped on his shoulders, driving them down until his lips tasted dust. "Don't move."

Dirt and grime entered his nostrils with every breath. The need to sneeze was overpowering, as was the need to relieve the tension in his muscles. His leg itched and he jerked. A foot immediately stomped on his thigh. "Don't move! Make yourself part of the ground. Anything else and you're dead."

Seconds later, a small bug crawled onto his neck, inching its way across his jaw and his cheek. Damn, he wanted to brush it away. It tickled. It was driving him crazy, it was all he could think of. He breathed in sharply, causing more dust to be sucked into his nose. He had to sneeze, tried not to, shuddered with the effort. And, finally, picked up his head and sneezed at least ten minutes of collected goo onto the ground.

"You're dead," Jim said softly.

He rolled onto his back and raised himself into a sitting position, rubbing eyes that were tearing from irritation. Right now, he didn't give a shit. Sneezing, getting that glop out of his nose, had felt wonderful and he wasn't the least bit sorry he'd done it. "I couldn't help it," he replied with a half-smile and a voice that clearly lacked remorse.

Kirk didn't return the smile; in fact, he looked downright grim. "You have to help it. If you don't, you'll be dead and everyone around you will be dead."

Jim wasn't yelling, wasn't even angry. Of course, the kid looked at things differently – from the command perspective of the officer in charge of the landing party who'd one day be responsible for the lives of those crewmembers. A failure like McCoy's could lead to countless and unnecessary deaths. And that made McCoy feel even more guilty for his weakness. "What do you do when your nose itches, when bugs are crawling all over you?" he asked, finally, trying to meet Jim halfway.

"I guess the same thing you do in surgery when you have a headache or your foot itches – ignore it."

The kid had a point. While circulating nurses could be called upon to scratch an itch, surgeons still learned to ignore minor physical inconveniences during an operation. Mind over matter, his surgical mentors had taught him. Still, the analogy wasn't perfect.

"Not exactly the same, kid. When I'm in the OR, I'm focusing on my patient so hard that I don't even feel the itching."

"So find something else to focus on – an imaginary patient, a day at the beach – whatever works for you."

"What do you focus on?"

"Staying alive so I can keep the men and women I'm responsible for alive." Jim's voice was matter-of-fact and McCoy for once didn't have a quick comeback. "Okay," Jim said, holding out a hand to help him rise, "let's do it again."

Again and again McCoy flung himself into the dirt and mud and vegetation and leaves and sand and whatever other elements Jim had selected for the training, forcing himself to be completely still even as sweat and dirt and dust and rain and insects fought for his attention. He pushed his mind to a different place, ignoring the irritants tormenting his body.

He was at the beach, floating on a raft in the cool water, sun warming his face, body fully relaxed. Around him came the splashing and voices of people playing on a summer afternoon. A canoe slid by, its occupants laughing as they struggled to find a steady stroke. There was a yell, a rebel yell by all accounts, and then a huge splash as someone flew from the tire swing and into the river. Cold water splashed over him, as he pretended to be angry and then territorial as his best friend Johnnie swam over and tried to push him off the raft. In a minute, they'd both end up in the river, refreshed and happy . . .

"Bones! McCoy!"

It was a test; he dared not move.

"Bones, get up. Come on, we're done. Let's grab some dinner."

McCoy's body remained perfectly still; only his eyes flicked sideways to find Jim standing above him, a smile on his face. "We're done."

McCoy tried to move, found himself unable to force his limbs out of their fixed positions. It was as if his entire body was asleep. Once he'd managed to reach his knees. Jim reached a hand toward him. He grabbed for it, groaning at the strain on his muscles. Slowly, painfully, he stumbled to his feet.

"Do you know how long you lay there without moving?" Jim's voice carried the admiration of a proud father.

McCoy ran fingers through his hair and brushed the dirt out of his nose and eyes. "Twenty minutes?" It felt like at least twice that long.

"Nearly an hour.

"An hour! You let me lie in that muck for a fucking hour? What in the hell were you thinking leaving me there . . . ."

The damn kid only smiled.


	9. The Test

Year 1 – McCoy (continued)

"You've got to outthink your opponent," Kirk stressed. "When he expects you to go left, go right. You're a big guy; use leverage to your advantage."

McCoy had lost count of the number of times Jim had thrown him onto the mat. Hard throws, soft throws, they all added up to yet another mass of aches and bruises. Jim was patient with him, more patient than McCoy would have been had their positions been reversed.

Hand-to-hand did not come naturally to him. McCoy was big, strong, and fit and yet lacked the special qualities it took to make him a natural fighter. Even so, Jim was right. There were certain techniques that could be used to maximize his advantage. Against an experienced foe, they wouldn't do more than prolong the inevitable. But, in a quick skirmish with an undisciplined opponent, they'd give McCoy the opening he needed to prevail or, more likely, escape to fight another day.

Over the course of the past few weeks, McCoy had grudgingly come to trust Jim. The kid might be wild and unconventional, but he also had a basic knack of doing what it took to survive and was a better teacher than McCoy could ever have imagined. Sanchez might be teaching the course; but the real lessons came from Cadet Jim Kirk.

"Duck! Duck!"

McCoy ducked, twisted his body and pulled Kirk's neck backwards, forearm pressing into the carotid. Kirk called an end to that particular exercise, smiling broadly. McCoy knew he'd handled this drill well but wondered whether, had this been the real thing, he could have continued pressing his arm into his opponent's neck. Could he, a man sworn to heal, actually kill if the need arose? Based on the ruthlessness he'd seen from Jim during the course, he had no doubt Kirk could and would.

*****

"Cadet McCoy, you're up." Sanchez beckoned him toward the range. He approached, weapon in hand, having already watched other cadets go through the scenario. This was the final test of the course – relatively easy for the command and security types – a single opponent from a known, reinforced position. Armed with only a phaser and his instincts, his mission was to avoid being hit and simultaneously set up to return fire until he either killed the sniper or received reinforcements. Or was killed, which was not the desired outcome. The special suit he wore would record any hits as well as determine their severity.

He'd already successfully completed several of the requisite exercises, thanks largely to Jim's help. Pass today's test and he passed the course and was finished forever with the self-defense portion of his Starfleet curriculum. Fail and he'd have to petition to retake the course, which meant some sort of groveling to the Captain and Admiral types and, at best, another six weeks of running and weaving and shooting and pushing them out for Lt. Sanchez and the other instructors. Or quitting and going home with his tail between his legs.

"Ready?" Lt. Sanchez asked.

"Ready." He hoped.

As instructed, he skirted across the open area. Without warning, a streaking beam of phaser fire hit the ground next to him. Without breaking stride, he scanned his surroundings as Jim had taught him – the nearest shelter was 30 meters ahead and to the left – a hedge row that would provide an excellent firing position, assuming he reached it. At the moment, he was out in the open, exposed.

Do the unexpected, Jim had said. The natural choice was to move quickly toward cover and that's what the sniper would expect. Instead, McCoy dashed to the right and sideways, even as the fire hit empty ground ahead and to his left. He repressed a smile of satisfaction – Sanchez was about to see that this doctor wasn't as stupid as she'd come to expect.

He crouched, weaved, and bobbed, zig-zagging back toward his left. Phaser fire rained around him, one beam so close he could actually feel the heat. Now he was at full sprint, lunging for the small wall, diving into the dirt, rolling, and coming up into a firing position. Shit, he'd exposed himself needlessly. He waited for the expected hit. It didn't come. He hunkered down, safe for the moment.

"Your position is being overrun!" A computer voice simulated orders from a fictional commanding officer. Shit, this wasn't part of the exercise, or wasn't supposed to be. Prepare for the unexpected, Jim had warned, and they'd rehearsed for this very scenario.

Bring the phaser closer to your body, McCoy remembered and, as instructed, he tugged his elbows tight against his torso, steeling himself for the attack that was sure to come.

"Here!" came a cry from his left.

Instinctively, he turned and, as he did so, Jim's admonition rang in his ears. "Keep alert; they'll try to trick you by calling out." Thus, McCoy wasn't completely stunned when an arm batted the phaser from his hand. He noted where it had fallen but didn't make the mistake of immediately lunging to retrieve it. Instead, he readied his body for the next blow.

He wasn't disappointed. The initial shot aimed for his head, the assailant behind him and to his right. He parried, twisted, and used the moves he'd practiced so many times. It wasn't pretty but it was effective when the goal for the medical cadets was not to win the skirmish but merely do enough for the instructor to call it a draw.

It helped, McCoy thought ruefully, that as a doctor he knew a thing or two about the human body, including certain points where the right amount of pressure would deliver intense pain. Of course, it worked better if you weren't too busy trying to save your own ass. Thankfully, Jim's 'tricks' gave him enough time and leverage to use his innate knowledge. Within thirty seconds, he had disabled his opponent. He quickly retrieved his phaser and again assumed the ready position.

"End exercise," Sanchez called out.

Several minutes later, McCoy, seated next to Jim on one of the metal benches that lined the course, took a long sip from his canteen, allowing some of the water to dribble down his chin.

He felt a small surge of pride at his performance. It would never have been acceptable for a command cadet; had Jim run the course the same way, Sanchez would have been all over him from the first step. But, no matter what she'd told McCoy, doctors were indeed subject to a different standard. They didn't need to lead away missions, didn't have to ensure security for the landing party or protect innocent civilians. No, all they had to do was stay alive and make sure they didn't do anything so stupid as to endanger their fellow crewmembers. On those counts, McCoy had passed with flying colors. He'd never be a great fighter but, thanks to Jim's tutelage, had managed to hold his own and would pass the course that had been such a prolonged source of anxiety.

"So, Bones, still planning to quit Starfleet?" Jim asked, a crooked smile creasing his face.

McCoy wanted to growl, scowl, or in some way show his disgruntlement with the entire process. He couldn't. As wretched as the last weeks had been, the result had been strangely satisfying. This miserable place called Starfleet and the rowdy kid named James T. Kirk had forced him to accomplish something he never thought possible. For most cadets, today's course was but the first step in a tedious curriculum that would progress from self-defense to aggressive offense. For McCoy, it was simply a victory, a wonderful, precious, exhilarating victory.

And, he supposed, he was now stuck with Jim's stupid nickname. Despite himself, McCoy returned the smile.

"You were awesome, _Bones_," Jim said, clearly relishing his own victory.

McCoy couldn't help but be pleased with the compliment. "I was adequate, and that's only because of you."

"You passed. That's all that matters."

He took another swig of water and gave Jim a lopsided frown. "If Sanchez doesn't decide to fail me out of spite."

Jim's eyes twinkled. "I think she likes you."

He groaned. "Hates me is more like it."

"Well, whichever, she's definitely got her eyes on you."

McCoy gulped down more water, eyes narrowing as he focused on the subject of their discussion, who was currently explaining to a female cadet the errors of her ways on the self-defense course. "Speaking of which, how does Sanchez look to you?"

Jim followed his gaze. "Hot as ever," he said with a leering smile. "But not my type. You got the hots for her?"

He gave Jim an irritated look. "Of course not, you moron." His eyes wandered back to Sanchez. "Look at her. Does she seem a bit off?"

Jim shrugged. "Not really. I'd say she's being her normal obnoxious and demanding self."

McCoy continued to stare, medical instincts on alert. He'd had the unfortunate experience of watching Lt. Sanchez close up for the past weeks as she'd made his life a living hell. Normally, the instructor moved with a grace and confidence that came from a strong body and mind and the inherent recognition of superiority. Today, however, there was a subtle difference. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, how she moved, or maybe the way she was now leaning against a wall that seemed unnatural, for her at least. While he might have a hard time articulating exactly what bothered him, the sixth sense that made him a good doctor was telling him that something was off. "I think something's wrong," he finally said.

"Like . . .?"

McCoy's eyes flicked to Jim. "Like she's favoring her left side and she's spent the entire morning sitting or leaning against something. She's usually running around like crazy, demonstrating how badly we're screwing up."

"Bones, stop being a doctor. She's probably tired, taking it easy – hell, she's more than entitled."

"I _am_ a doctor," he growled. "And I'd be damned if there isn't something wrong." He put aside his canteen and stood up. "Here's to nothing." A few seconds later, he sidled up to the instructor, waiting until she'd turned away from the cadet she'd been correcting. "Lieutenant, you feeling okay?" he asked, doing his best to sound nonchalant.

She gave him a look of annoyance. "Get back to your unit, Cadet."

McCoy ignored her and stepped closer, scrutinizing her carefully. "You're moving like you're in pain."

"I'm fine."

He raised his eyebrows. "Look, I may not be an expert on self-defense, but I know a hell of a lot about the human body." It was impossible to keep the indignation out of his voice. "And I'll be my scalpel that something's not right with yours. I suggest that you get yourself checked out. Soon."

"I'm the expert on my body and I'm _fine_." Her smile was empty. "But I promise that when I do have a medical problem, I'll be sure to see a doctor."

Maybe not seriously injured, but definitely not fine. He ought to drag her sorry ass to medical and make sure she got a proper exam. But, absent anything more than a healthy suspicion that she had a medical problem, he had no authority to make her do anything. A physical shrug followed his mental one. "You do that, Lieutenant," he replied, but she'd already turned back to her students.

Jim greeted his return with a knowing smirk. "No luck, huh?"

"Can't make the woman use common sense."

"Well, with luck, you'll never see her again." He tossed McCoy his bag of gear. "Thought we might head over to the Blue Turtle to celebrate."

The Blue Turtle wasn't McCoy's favorite watering hole but it was nearby and had the three things he wanted most in the world at this moment. Bourbon, bourbon, and more bourbon. "It's a deal, kid."


	10. On Call Year 1

First, thanks to all those who've taken the time to review/comment on this story. As I mentioned earlier, the story is divided into the three years Kirk & McCoy spent together at Starfleet Academy, and each year is further divided into segments focusing on Kirk and McCoy and an "On Call" segment. The "On Call" segments deal with McCoy as a physician and are often told from the perspective of the patient. Enjoy!

* * *

_On Call – Year 1_

There were, she decided, few things in the world more humiliating than sitting in an examination room, virtually naked but for a coverall that covered a lot less than "all," waiting for some doctor to poke and prod and scan you. And, hopefully, at the end of the day, to tell you that your problem wasn't serious, that a hypo or a couple of pills would make it all go away.

It was a process over which the patient had little control and Lt. Elena Sanchez was all about control. She'd risen quickly in Starfleet and now, still only a lieutenant, was recognized as an expert on firearms, self-defense, and small-unit combat tactics, which was why she'd been chosen to teach the Intro to Combat course at the Academy, a high honor for someone so junior in rank. It was a course over which she had full control and one she ran with an iron hand. The cadets might not like her – hell, they probably cursed her daily – but they invariably came respect her and the importance of what she was teaching them.

Her course was required for all new cadets, including medical personnel. In her view, Starfleet doctors were best used for cleaning up the mess of a battle gone bad – closing wounds, healing fractures, alleviating shock. She respected them for what they did in combat, often under trying conditions, to help the injured and dying. They could be handy folks to have around on a mission, provided they weren't inadvertently doing something to screw it up, like needlessly exposing themselves to enemy fire. Which was why they had to take – and pass – her course. She wouldn't turn them into commandos in the few short weeks they were with her but she could make it less likely they'd get themselves or someone else killed through sheer ignorance or stupidity.

Her feelings about routine medicine were more ambivalent. She wasn't one to run to the doctor for every little ache and pain. Being a Starfleet officer was physically demanding, and her job even more so. If she went to medical every time something twinged, that's about all she'd ever do. The few times she had given in, had finally sought medical attention, the doctors usually insisted on taking her off duty when, in her view, it was totally unnecessary. Because their word in medical matters was final, she was stuck with their decision. She'd vowed that she had to be near death before setting foot inside a medical facility – unless she was in danger of failing to re-qualify on the combat course due to injury. And if she didn't get this injury taken care of, that's exactly what would happen, which was why she was now sitting on a biobed in an exam room waiting for the doctor.

Speaking of which, where was he? A glance at her chronometer revealed she'd been sitting here, waiting, for nearly forty minutes. Much more of this and she'd be late for her own class. Was he intentionally delaying as much as possible simply to piss her off, turnabout being fair play or something like that? She doubted even he would do that. The explanation was most likely the one she'd been given – he was with another patient and would see her as soon as possible. Even so, one more minute of sitting here and she'd—

The door to the room opened and Dr. – not merely Cadet – Leonard McCoy walked into the room, allowing the door to swish closed behind him. "Good afternoon, Lt. Sanchez." His nose was buried in an electronic chart. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he added in the practiced tone that suggested he was indeed sorry but that his tardiness couldn't be avoided. The first thing she noticed was that he looked very different – more comfortable – in his medical tunic and in this room than she'd ever seen him.

Eyes flicked up from the chart, followed by eyebrows that frowned. "I understand you asked for me." The tone was flat, neutral – not welcoming and not dismissive.

She had indeed and McCoy was no doubt wondering why, of all the physicians at the Academy's medical facility, she'd requested – demanded, actually – to see him. After all, they'd certainly had their disagreements and run-ins during the combat course.

Her decision certainly hadn't been based on his performance in her class which, but for the intervention of Cadet Kirk, he'd have come damn close to failing. Oh, she'd noticed all right – on more than one occasion she'd seen the two men around the Academy, honing the skills she'd taught, the younger man always teaching the medic. She'd been impressed, both that McCoy obviously cared enough to do well and that Kirk was demonstrating leadership in providing the extra instruction to one of his classmates.

She had no idea whether McCoy was any good as a physician. On occasion, Kirk had sung his praises, but he and McCoy were obviously friends so his views didn't carry all that much weight with her.

No, what she'd seen in _Cadet_ McCoy and what had led her to seek out _Doctor_ McCoy, was his fierce determination, and an unwillingness to give up even when the odds were stacked against him. He'd cranked out the pushups and the crunches and the other exercises she'd thrown at him when his performance had been sub-par. On those occasions when he didn't think he'd piss her off – or maybe didn't care if he did – he'd thrown in a few smart comebacks of his own. At first it had annoyed her; over time, she'd come to realize his apparent defiance was simply part of his personality. It wasn't malevolent, wasn't even disrespectful; it was just him. And, despite all the shit she'd given him, he'd never quit and never lost that irreverent sarcasm that he knew drove her to distraction. Those qualities were what she wanted in a doctor, especially if her condition turned out to be more serious than anticipated.

What was she supposed to do now – explain why she'd asked for him, explain her symptoms or wait for him to ask?

Thankfully, he broke the silence. "It says here that you're experiencing pain in your left hip," he said, fixing her with a clinical gaze, assessing her in much the same way that she approached an enemy position.

"It's the same thing I had a couple of weeks ago on the course, when you asked me about it. I thought it was just a muscle strain. I've tried resting – well, sort of – but it hasn't gotten better; if anything, it's worse. It hurts all the time and some days I can barely walk. I have the instructor requal coming up and if I don't . . . ." Stop rambling and shut up already, she told herself, unless you want him to think you're a complete idiot.

His eyebrows scrunched together in an obvious display of irritation and annoyance. "You've been in pain for over _two weeks_ and you're just now seeing a doctor? You told me you'd get it taken care of."

It was already clear who was in charge _here_. This McCoy had none of the hesitation or the lack of confidence he'd displayed in her class and also apparently little respect for her rank or the fact that, only a short time ago, she'd been his instructor.

Yeah, ignoring the pain probably hadn't been the smartest thing she'd ever done. At first, it had indeed seemed like a muscle strain and, from experience, she knew what the prescription would be – rest – which was fine if you weren't teaching a course where you were expected to demonstrate demanding physical techniques on a daily basis. Not to mention that going to medical for a simple muscle strain was wimpy. In battle, you couldn't stop because your leg hurt, you had to push on through the pain. She expected her students to persevere through minor injuries just as they would in real life; as the instructor, she could do no less.

"I didn't think it was serious," she finally replied. "I thought it would get better if I just rested the muscle." Lame, she thought, very lame.

His eyes seemed to fixate briefly on the ceiling before slowly coming to rest on her. "And you know this because you got your medical degree along with your self-defense certificate?" he asked, his tone gently mocking and making clear that she shouldn't have tried to diagnose and treat herself.

She wouldn't back down this easily. "No, but I have had muscle strains before, Doctor, and they've yet to be life-threatening. Goes with the job."

"Teaching combat tactics is your job. I'm a doctor. Diagnosing and treating injury is mine."

"Which is why I'm here, _Doctor_." She could give back as good as she got.

He pursed his lips. "Well, something's obviously different this time, something that makes Dr. Sanchez think it's not a muscle strain. What is it?"

It was like being a straight man for his caustic wit. The sarcasm was fair in that he had confronted her weeks ago and she'd been the one who'd delayed seeing a doctor. She considered lying, or at least minimizing her symptoms but had the distinct impression it wouldn't fool this doctor for a minute. "The pain is worse," she acknowledged. "It feels different . . . deeper, if that makes any sense."

He nodded as if it did indeed make sense, at least to him. "Does it hurt all of the time or only when you're doing certain things?"

"All the time," she admitted. "It's even hard to sleep."

"What analgesics have you taken?"

Starfleet personnel were supposed to get all medicine from Starfleet medical; they weren't allowed to self-medicate. Yet almost everyone did and McCoy probably knew that. "Taramol for the last couple of days. Didn't help."

"Take any today?"

Interesting that he didn't rebuke her for using painkillers on her own. "No."

McCoy picked up an instrument from the bedside table. "Okay, let's see what we're dealing with."

She held her breath as the scanner whirred over her left side, searching his expression for some hint of the verdict. His eyes, buried in the results the machine was producing, betrayed nothing and the scanner finally stopped. Had he taken a deep breath?

"Can you lie down for me, on your right side?"

_Shit_. "Don't screw with me, Doc. It's not a muscle strain, is it?" Her voice sounded tinny to her own ears.

McCoy imperceptibly shook his head. "No."

She lay back onto the bed, turning to expose her left flank. "So what is it?"

"Not sure yet. That's why I'm examining you – it's what _doctors_ do before making a diagnosis." McCoy pushed up the coverall, strong hands pressing against the bones in her hip. She was unable to repress a gasp as his fingers reached a particularly sensitive spot.

"Almost done." His voice had turned sympathetic even as he continued the relentless probing.

She gritted her teeth, determined not to act like a weakling. "Payback for all those pushups I made you do?"

"If I really wanted to torment you, Lieutenant, I promise I could do a better job than this," he replied and, without being able to see his expression, she couldn't quite decide if the man was being serious or once again mocking her.

A few seconds later, the coverall was replaced and his hand touched her left shoulder. "You can sit up now." He pressed a button on the comms unit. "This is McCoy. I need a biopsy tray and a nurse in room four," he said before turning back to her.


	11. A Diagnosis

_On Call – Year 1 (cont)_

"Lieutenant, based on my examination so far, the pain you're experiencing is coming from deep within your bone. It's an area the scanners have trouble reaching, which is why I need to do a bone biopsy to determine the cause." The drawl that had been so annoying in her class was strangely comforting within the confines of the exam room. "I'll give you a local anesthetic but the procedure can still cause some discomfort."

Well, at least the man was honest, although that didn't exactly make her feel better. A bone biopsy – shit, that sounded bad. "Whatever you think I have . . . is it serious?"

His lips pressed into a tight line. "It could be any number of things. Let's see what the biopsy shows." His suddenly serious tone and the equally sudden disappearance of the wit and the sarcasm worried her.

A check of the room's chronometer indicated that she was definitely going to miss her next class and she said as much to McCoy.

"This is a bit more important. I'll let them know you won't be there." A quick call from the room's comms unit provided the medical excuse she needed.

A nurse entered the room, carrying a covered tray, which she handed to McCoy. While the doctor busied himself pulling on gloves and checking the contents, the nurse, who introduced herself as Tanya Davis, helped arrange her on her side, folding back the coverall and laying sterile sheets across her legs, hip and back. Sanchez found herself shivering, both from the cold air in the room and the uncertainty of what was to come.

She was scared. It was an emotion she rarely admitted to experiencing, and no one who knew her would have ever associated that word with her. It was a raw fear, a fear of the unknown, a fear of something she couldn't control and might not be able to defeat.

"I know it's all a bit overwhelming," the nurse almost whispered, mouth close to her ear. "McCoy can be a bit abrupt, but he's the best. You're in good hands."

It was what she needed to hear as strong fingers again touched her skin. The press of an injection in the muscle over her hip was followed by a pleasant numbness. McCoy explained each step of the process – the incision, insertion of the laser drill – more than she really wanted to know but probably better than not being told anything. Just when she thought this whole thing would be a breeze and that she'd escape without the promised pain, McCoy warned that she'd be feeling some intense pressure.

He wasn't kidding, she thought, as she felt an uncomfortable tightness throughout her hip, followed by the first twinge of pain. That wasn't a problem; she could deal with a bit of soreness. It was largely a case of mind over matter and after all of the crap she'd given McCoy for being a wimp, no way was she going to show weakness in front of---

More pressure. "Aahhh!" The cry from her mouth startled her as her world was suddenly filled with excruciating pain. The pressure released instantly but the agony continued. It was as if someone was drilling a hole inside her bone – shit, that's probably exactly what he was doing. She tried to strike out, to move, to get away.

"Sanchez," McCoy's steady voice cut into her thoughts, "I know it hurts but I need you to hold absolutely still."

She was trying, drawing on all the techniques she'd mastered over the years. _You don't know how much it hurts. It's killing me. Whatever you're doing, stop or for God's sake give me something. _Dammit, she was crying, tears falling unbidden from her eyes and she cursed her own weakness.

"Take deep breaths." It was Nurse Davis. "We're almost done."

"Withdrawing the sample now," McCoy said. "Stay with me, Sanchez. Just a minute more."

Her hip was on fire, bolts of pain shooting up and down her leg. _I can't take sixty more seconds of this; I can't take one more second._ She tensed her muscles, trying to adjust her position to relieve some of the agony.

"Keep her still, dammit," McCoy snapped. There was the sound of a switch flicking on and, almost immediately, she was unable to move anything below her waist. Nurse Davis held onto her shoulders, murmuring soothing words that didn't register.

Above her, McCoy spoke again this time in a much softer voice, "I know it hurts like hell, Lieutenant," he repeated. "I'm pulling out the biopsy needle now. Sorry about the stasis field, but I can't have you moving while I've got this thing buried in your hip bone."

There was the clatter of instruments, the hum of what was probably a protoplaser or dermal regenerator followed by a warm flush against her skin. Within a few seconds, the pain started to recede.

She didn't move, didn't even breathe, fearful of doing anything that might revisit the agony. McCoy's hand rested lightly on her shoulder. "It's okay," he said softly, "I'm done. You're all right now. Relax." Comfort without apology.

She slowly let her muscles unclench, allowed the nurse to reposition her onto her back, and discovered he was right, the pain was gone. He stripped off his gloves and returned the tray to the nurse, who quickly left the room, then turned to face her, his expression carefully neutral.

"I know a bone biopsy isn't much fun. Unfortunately, local analgesics only have limited effect on deep bone pain; the alternative is to do the procedure under general anesthesia, but that presents risks I'd rather not take. And, to be honest, a biopsy usually doesn't cause that much discomfort."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you saying I'm a wimp?" Or was he suggesting something more ominous?

McCoy shook his head. "You're definitely not a wimp. I won't know for certain until the results are analyzed but my guess is that the excessive pain is due to bone damage."

This was a lot to process. Bone damage sounded serious. "That's bad, isn't it?" she asked hesitantly, keying on McCoy's features. "Give it to me straight. I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

"I need to check on the results of the biopsy. I want to send you upstairs for one more test and I promise this one won't hurt." His expression was somewhere between a grimace and a smile. "Then we'll talk."

Less than thirty minutes later, she was back in the exam room, sitting on the biobed and assuring McCoy with a smile that his promise had held true – the additional testing had indeed been painless.

"Good." He didn't return the smile and her stomach sank.

"Why do I have the feeling what you're about to tell me isn't good news?"

He loosely crossed his arms. "Lieutenant, I'm sorry it's taken so long, that you've had to endure so many tests and procedures, but I wanted to be certain of my diagnosis, be sure I hadn't missed anything."

Bile rose in her throat. The only times doctors wanted to be doubly sure of anything was if you were pregnant or dying. And, since she definitely wasn't pregnant . . .

"The tests show that you have Baldwin's osteonecrosis. I'm very sorry."

He didn't need to elaborate. She was familiar with the diagnosis – hell, everyone was. Baldwin's was the "cancer" of the 23rd century, a disease with many variants that attacked people of different ages, people who were otherwise perfectly healthy. No one fully understood how or why you got it and, once you did, you might or might not be cured, the disease might or might not recur, you might or might not die. For a moment, her mouth hung open, unable to get out a word, unable to believe what he'd just told her. She was twenty-five years old; these things didn't happen to people her age. Well, they did, but this couldn't be happening to her, not now.

"As you probably know," McCoy continued, "Baldwin's is an autoimmune disease in which the body attacks its own bone. We're not entirely sure why it happens to certain people – whether it's environmental or genetic or maybe a combination of both."

She half-listened, trying to decide whether he was providing the explanation because he thought she didn't understand the disease or to give her time to process the diagnosis.

"It causes bone death – hence the term 'osteonecrosis.' Once it starts attacking the bone, the disease spreads quickly. In your case, it's already caused significant damage." McCoy's voice, she noted, remained steady and professional even as his eyes betrayed a glint of sympathy. Of course, he was probably used to this, telling people they had horrible diseases and even that they were going to die.

Swallowing her new-found terror, she faced him with a determined expression. "So what's the treatment?"

"Immediate surgery to remove the damaged bone followed by a drug regimen to prevent the disease from recurring. I'll try to implant osteo-regenerators during the surgery. Hopefully, there's enough surviving healthy bone tissue for them to take hold. I really won't know until I get in there."

_Surgery. Until I get in there._ He was talking about cutting her open, taking out her bone. How could she walk, let alone do her job, with some or all of her hip removed? "And what if . . . the bone can't be regenerated?" Somehow she managed to force out the words.

The brown eyes never left hers. "You're getting a little ahead of yourself, Lieutenant."

"I want to know! What happens if the regenerators don't work?"

"Assuming we can control the spread of the necrosis, we'll implant bionic prosthetics."

Assuming? That meant that if they couldn't stop the spread . . . "Shit. You're saying I could lose my leg or even . . . die."

"I'm going to do my best to prevent that," he said. "But I won't lie to you; your condition is more advanced than I'd hoped."

A part of her noticed that his gruff manner and cynicism had been replaced with a softer, more comforting demeanor that she found oddly frightening. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to sound braver than she felt, which really wasn't hard given that she was scared shitless. "So, you'll do the surgery?"

An eyebrow went up. "Would you prefer someone else?"

"You've done this before, right?"

That earned her a feeble smile. "Once or twice," he replied in a tone that suggested the actual number was much higher.

"Then I want you to do it." It was crazy. Other than the Academy rumor mill, she had no idea whether or not McCoy was even a competent surgeon, let alone the best man to perform her surgery. Logic dictated that she get a second opinion, research available surgeons, consider other options . . . right now, she wanted no part of that. All she wanted was get this disease out of her body as fast as possible. "So when do you operate?"

"Tonight, as soon as we can get you prepared."

"Tonight." He was going to cut her open tonight. Shit, she'd wanted to move fast, but this fast? She must be bad off, really bad off, if McCoy didn't even want to wait until tomorrow morning.

She'd never had real surgery before, nothing more than closing cuts. How long did this surgery take? How long would she have to spend in the hospital? When could she return to class? How long before she could run again, or even walk? They were all questions she wanted to ask, probably should ask. But she suspected that McCoy wouldn't have the answers to any of them until he actually operated and saw how much . . . oh God, bone damage there was. The thought of it made her almost physically ill.

McCoy touched a hand gently to her shoulder. "Is there someone you want to call? It might help to have a friend here when you . . . wake up."

She shrugged off his attention. "I'm okay."

"You really shouldn't go through this alone." So, despite all she'd heard, the man did have a bedside manner of sorts. He probably assumed that decent-looking women her age had a boyfriend, a girlfriend, some friend to call on in situations like this. She had . . . Starfleet. The downside of giving all you had to a career was that it was, well, all you had. Sure, she had friends, but no one who'd want to spend hours in a waiting room and even more hours holding vigil at her bedside.

The only person who came to mind was her mom. One call and she'd be here, worried and overprotective as ever, the same mom who hadn't wanted Elena to join Starfleet in the first place. Even after she'd signed on, her mom hadn't understood why, of all the career paths Starfleet offered, her daughter had chosen one that called on her to shoot people for a living. While her mother had been proud of Elena's success, she'd never accepted the Starfleet lifestyle and that wasn't likely to change. Sanchez had no doubt her mom would somehow find a way to blame Starfleet for her disease. No way could she deal with her mom's attitude on top of everything else she was facing.

McCoy was still awaiting her reply. "Lieutenant?" he asked.

She swallowed hard and faced him with determination. "No one for now. I'll be okay. Maybe after the surgery, once we see . . . what . . . what happens. If I . . . if you can't save . . . ." The air seemed to escape her body, a lightheadedness started to overtake her. Hell, she was panicking.

Strong arms gripped her shoulders, his face inches from hers. "It's okay. Breathe with me, Sanchez. In and out." She could feel his breath on her cheeks. "Come on now, breathe. You're going to be okay." McCoy's soothing words kept coming even as it dawned on her that she was finally facing death and it wasn't even on a battlefield.


	12. An Outcome

On Call – Year 1 (cont.)

Blue. It wasn't the first thing she'd expected to see when she woke up from surgery. But, as her eyes became accustomed to her surroundings, she realized that the ceiling and walls were bathed in the pale blue one would expect to find in an infant boy's room. The lower part of her body was enveloped in a soft neon blue light. And the person standing next to her bed, the omnipresent Nurse Davis, was wearing the requisite medical blue tunic. Someone must have decided the color was soothing to the sick and injured.

Lying flat on her back in the bed, with only her head raised at a slight angle, was awkward and rather uncomfortable and she twisted to change positions – or at least tried to. Nothing moved other than her head.

_Oh my God, I can't move. I'm paralyzed. _

The fear must have reached her eyes because the nurse touched her forehead and gave her a reassuring smile. "It's good to see you're finally awake. The reason you can't move is because you're in stasis." So that explained the blue light. "That's normal for people who've undergone your type of surgery. I paged Dr. McCoy when you started to come around," she added. "He'll be here in a minute and go over everything with you."

Well, at least she wasn't paralyzed. "Time?" Just getting out the one word was tough given that her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

"Just after 0600. You were in surgery for about four hours." The nurse offered her a few sips of water; it tasted heavenly and helped clear her mouth. "Are you in any pain?"

Surprisingly, she wasn't and said so.

"Good, because Dr. McCoy's got you on some pretty strong pain meds."

Not being in pain was a good thing, being doped up not so good. More important was what had happened to her – was her leg still there? She tried to crane her neck to look down the length of her body but couldn't see anything other than a medical sheet – also in an obnoxious shade of blue. "My hip . . . is it--?" She looked up at the nurse, pleading for an answer.

"Your hip is still there," came McCoy's voice from the doorway as he quickly crossed to her side, eyes scanning the monitors above the bed before dropping down to meet hers.

Relief flooded through her. She was alive and her leg was still there. "I'm okay?" she asked tentatively.

He nodded. Still in his scrubs, he managed to look both exhausted and refreshed at the same time. It was also the first time she'd seen him unshaven – in some ways the rough, edgy look was more in keeping with his personality and, for a moment, she wondered if that was his normal appearance before his introduction to Starfleet grooming standards.

McCoy was still talking. "I'll be honest with you; the surgery was a little rough. The necrosis had spread throughout your ilium – your hipbone – and I had to remove most of it. There was also a patch of necrosis in your left femur. I think – I hope – that I was able to save enough for the regenerators to latch onto. We won't know for a few days."

The relief vanished as quickly as it had come. The surgery might not have been enough; she might still lose her leg . . . or worse. And she only had herself to blame. If she'd only listened to McCoy weeks ago, had gotten herself looked at right away . . . "It's my fault; if I hadn't waited . . ." She couldn't prevent depression from seeping into her voice.

"No!" he snapped, anger flashing briefly across his features. "Baldwin's is a disease, not a punishment. Nothing you did caused this."

"If I'd listened to you that day—"

"You'd still have the disease." She was surprised when his hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder and even more surprised that she welcomed the reassurance. She'd expected to get through this on her own, the way she'd managed to get through everything else in life. She was tough, she could handle it – the mantra she'd repeated more times than she cared to count. It felt good to have support this time, even if it was just a kind word from a former student who'd only hours ago held her life in his hands.

"Listen to me _now_," he said, almost daring her to disobey. "You're going to need all of your strength to fight this. Don't waste any of it on blame or second-guessing. You can't change what's happened – focus on what's ahead of you."

She nodded, almost cowed by the force of his personality, so different from the student she'd taught only weeks ago. At the time, she doubted he'd ever be a leader in anything – the past twenty-four hours were causing her to rethink that opinion.

McCoy was still talking. "I'm going to release part of the stasis field now – enough for you to move your chest and arms. The rest of you doesn't move – we need to give those regenerators a chance to do their thing."

So she'd be confined to the bed for a while. "And if it doesn't work?"

The brown eyes flashed again, this time twinkling with amusement. "You don't seem to have much confidence in my abilities, Lieutenant."

"It's not that. It's only that . . . I want to be prepared . . . for the worst."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it." He nodded at the nurse. "Now, let me take a look at my handiwork."

******

It was Nurse Davis, not McCoy, who came to see her on morning rounds, first checking her vital signs on the monitors and then carefully examining her left side. It had been touch and go for the past few days as they waited to see if the regenerators implanted in her hip would start producing new bone to replace what had been surgically removed. She'd tried hard not to become discouraged as with each check there was no progress. Through it all McCoy had remained optimistic and yet realistic. "Give it a chance, Lieutenant," he'd drawled with regularity. "These things take time. I'll let you know when the time comes to start worrying and it's not now."

"Same old, same old?" Elena asked the nurse. On day five post-surgery it was hard to keep the pessimism out of her tone.

"There might be some improvement," Davis responded in a voice that was careful not to convey any enthusiasm as she reactivated the stasis field and refolded the covers over her body. "We'll have to wait to see what Dr. McCoy thinks."

"Speaking of which, where is he this morning? He's usually checked in on me by now."

The nurse busied herself with the monitors. "Dr. McCoy was in surgery most of the night. A couple of cadets got hit by a metro transport."

She winced in sympathy. "They okay?"

"One's doing great; the other is still critical but the fact that he made it through the night is a good sign. In any event, the chief surgeon sent McCoy home to get some shut-eye. I don't think he's caught more than a short nap in the last two days. He's got an important exam today and it won't look good if he falls asleep in the middle of it."

The nurse activated the sonic cleansing machine and, starting at Elena's head, began to run it along the length of her body. While not as pleasant as a real shower, it did essentially the same thing in keeping her body clean while it was in stasis.

"I don't know how he does it," Davis continued. "Puts in a full shift as a staff surgeon, covers sickcall on a regular basis, does research, and still manages to attend Academy classes with the rest of the cadets. Rumor is that he's at the top of his class. Don't know for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me."

It was something Elena had never considered. Rather than doing less than most of his peers, McCoy was actually working much harder. Maybe that explained some of the difficulty he'd had in her course – unlike most of her students, it probably was one of the least important parts of his day. He was probably dead on his feet half of the time and worried about patients the other half. If only she'd realized that a few weeks ago . . . well, she wouldn't have made the course any easier, but she might have cut him a little slack.

"Doesn't leave much time for bedside manner," Davis added. "He can be a jerk – it's a wonder patients don't punch his lights out every now and then. But I've got to admit, I've worked with a lot of surgeons during my time and he's damn good. Unfortunately, he also knows it," she added with a wry smile.

Elena wondered whether the nurse knew about her own history with McCoy. "Did he tell you that he was my student in the combat course?"

Davis gathered up her equipment. "He mentioned it," she said, "something about doing a lot of pushups."

"I'm beginning to think I might have been a little rough on him."

The nurse laughed. "Nah, a bit of humble pie is exactly what he needs every now and then."

"Well, no matter how this turns out," Elena said, pointing toward the lower half of her body, "I guess I got the best care possible."

"Maybe not the best beside manner, but definitely the best care." Nurse Davis gently squeezed her hand.

"Ladies." McCoy's voice sounded from the doorway. "Am I missing something here?"

"Not at all, Doctor," Davis replied, letting go of Elena's hand. "Just assuring our patient that she's doing well."

McCoy's expression and slight twitch of his cheek suggested he didn't believe her for a moment.

His examination started out like the others since her surgery, with McCoy checking the site of the incision with his eyes, hands and the ubiquitous scanner. Only a slight raise of his eyebrow signaled that maybe, just maybe something had happened, although Elena wasn't sure if that was good or bad. He covered her with the sheet and punched a few buttons on the console over her head, then a few more, totally focused on whatever readings the machines produced. When he finally looked down at her, there was a bright smile on his face – the first time she'd ever seen him smile, at least like this.

"Well, Lieutenant, it's not much but it is progress. One of the three regenerators has started to grow new bone."

Unbelievable. For one of the very few times in her life, Elena Sanchez cried, allowing the tears to spill and not caring that former student and current surgeon Leonard McCoy was there to see it. Didn't care if the damn world saw her. She took the proffered tissue, blew her nose and dabbed her eyes. "Thank you," she finally managed to stammer. The words wouldn't come and, even had she been able to get them out, they would have been inadequate.

"It's not over," McCoy cautioned, pulling up a chair. "Only one of the regenerators is active – we still have to see what happens with the other two."

"What do you think?" she asked, almost afraid to feel hopeful.

McCoy chewed on his lower lip. "Not sure. Sometimes, this is the start of complete regeneration. Other times . . . we'll just have to wait and see."

"So what happens next?"

"With a little luck, within a couple of weeks you'll regrow enough bone to start PT, which means at least three months of torture that'll make your damn combat course look like kindergarten recess." His voice was gruff but by now she knew that the doctor's eyes revealed his true emotions.

"And what if the bone doesn't regenerate?" It was the question that, until this very moment, she'd been afraid to ask.

He shrugged. "I know you're impatient, Lieutenant, but these things take time. We won't know the prognosis for awhile yet. For now, I'm optimistic that the other regenerators will take hold and . . . eventually . . . you'll regain full use of your hip and leg. But 'm not giving guarantees. Another week or so and I'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with."

Well, it was about as good as she could have expected under the circumstances. "I understand, Doctor. You've done more than I could ever have hoped. And I want to officially apologize to you for being such a jerk to you in my class."

McCoy stood up from his chair. "Lt. Sanchez, you were just doing your job and I'm just doing mine." He smiled. "How about we leave it at that?"

She returned his smile. "It's a deal."


	13. Year 2 Begins

_Year 2 – McCoy_

Jim hated hospitals, clinics, doctor's offices, sickbays – medical facilities of any kind. Hated the smell. Hated the smug superiority with which medical personnel treated you. Hated the complex terminology, the impotence, the loss of control. It was the same reason he despised hyposprays. Jim understood they were efficient, quick, and ensured compliance with the doctor's prescription, even if they did hurt like hell for the brief moment they were jabbed into your body. With pills, you always had the option of not taking them. Patches could be pulled off. The problem Jim had with hypos was that medical personnel controlled everything – the timing, the dosage, even the decision to use or not use them. To accept a hypo meant, for a moment at least, relinquishing control over your very life.

More than a few times, Bones had teased him about his uneasiness. Jim had attributed it to the fear most people experienced around doctors and hospitals. Bones seemed to accept the explanation and, for now at least, Jim wasn't prepared to say more.

Here in Starfleet Academy's main medical center, a unique aroma clung to everything. Even though alcohol was rarely used in modern medicine, its smell was a staple in every medical facility Jim had ever visited – and he'd visited more than his share. It was something he'd noticed about Bones – even a shower and change of clothing never completely erased the odor that identified him as a member of the medical profession.

He passed through the ER waiting room, filled with people of different ages, species, and gender, all united in a common emotion – worry. They looked scared, eyes darting in that skittish furtive manner that was unique to those expecting bad news at any moment. Huddled in chairs, they pretended to read holobooks or watch holovids – watching but not seeing.

Jim had spent far too many nights sitting in rooms just like this one waiting for his turn with the doctor. They always took you based on how bad off you were, and the cuts and bruises and minor fractures he typically sported weren't nearly enough to warrant a place at the head of the line. Instead of being thankful, he'd usually been pissed that he'd had to wait hours for treatment and that he'd smell of alcohol for hours afterward.

Jim knew his way around this hospital, not because he'd been a frequent patient but because it was where he generally met Bones before a night on the town. Bones was often stuck working well beyond the time his shift was supposed to end and, given that the hospital was across from the gate leading into town, they saved time leaving directly from here.

He moved aside and allowed two nurses to pass him in the hallway.

"I don't know what we're going to do about 416," Nurse One commented. "Her urine output's in the tank and the diuretics aren't doing the trick. She's going to drown in her own fluid."

Nurse Two nodded sagely. "Not to mention her O2 sats suck. No way will Perry operate."

"Can't say I blame him. She dies on the table and the family's going to blame the surgeon when we all know she's basically a goner."

Bile rose in Jim's throat at their smug superiority, the way they talked about a woman who very well might die as if she were an exhibit in a zoo. He was used to a certain amount of arrogance from members of the medical profession – even Bones. Well, especially Bones. But underneath the hard demeanor Bones cared. While Jim didn't these nurses, nothing about their conversation indicated they were truly concerned about their patient's welfare. They moved further down the corridor, out of hearing range, as Jim turned the corner toward the surgical suite.

If the ER waiting room was tense, this place was filled with outright apprehension as relatives anxiously awaited the pronouncement of the surgeon operating on their loved ones. Once or twice, he'd arrived in time to watch Bones play the role of God – the courier of relief or the purveyor of doom. He had to admit that Bones was pretty good at it – delivering the news, good and bad, in a confident and matter-of-fact manner that seemed to comfort even the most distraught relatives.

Even so, just being here made Jim sick to his stomach. A check of his chronometer confirmed that he was a few minutes early. Tonight would be a short trip into town. Bones had an exam the next afternoon – of course Bones was prepared for the exam; Jim had rarely found Bones unprepared for anything, except maybe that self-defense course. Jim allowed himself a grin at the memory. He'd spent enough time hanging around this waiting room to hear the tales of admiration for what McCoy was able to do in the OR. It kind of made Jim proud to be his friend, not that he'd _ever_ share those feelings with McCoy. The man's ego was already the size of a galaxy.

"I've never seen anything like it."

The voice belonged to a young surgical resident, standing a few feet away and talking to fellow resident. Both were in scrubs. Jim had spent enough time in hospitals to distinguish attendings from residents from nursing staff from techs. Probably third-year residents, Kirk decided. Not scared enough to be first-years and yet still too cocky to realize all the stuff they didn't know.

The man's colleague, a female Andorian, nodded in agreement. "When she was brought in, I thought her to be dead. Her abdomen was full of blood."

"And did you see the head trauma? Shit, that was a mess."

"For a time, I thought he would be able to save her."

"Yeah, if they hadn't had to deal with that brain hemorrhage . . ."

"Still, the technique was brilliant," the Andorian said with obvious admiration.

"Even Carter said it was amazing and he thinks everyone's incompetent."

"I heard he took it hard."

"McCoy? Yeah."

Jim, who had only been half-listening to their conversation, suddenly came to rapt attention.

The Andorian resident was still talking. "I do not know why. It certainly was not his fault. At least he gave her a chance."

The male resident shrugged. "Yeah, but she's still dead."

They pair started to drift off. "Damn shame."

Jim approached the reception desk, the conversation he'd just overheard dampening his usual excitement. This typically was the best part of coming to the hospital because the receptionist was, in a word, hot. A willowy blond with startling green eyes, she had porcelain skin, long manicured fingers, and lips that could only be described as voluptuous. However, at the moment, Jim was more interested in finding what would likely be a tired and depressed surgeon than in making time with a sexy receptionist.

"Hi, Jim," she said, gazing up at him and batting her long eyelashes. "Looking for Dr. McCoy?"

Jim tried to feign nonchalance. "He here?"

"Nah, left about an hour ago."

That was more than an hour early. Bones never left his shift early. Late, most of the time, but early, never. That fact, and the conversation he'd overheard, only intensified the dread already gnawing at him. "That's not like him. Something happen today?" He tried to sound casual.

The receptionist leaned in close, and Jim was assaulted by the sight of her well-endowed boobs and the musky scent of her cologne. Normally, either was an immediate turn-on. Not today.

"Patient died," she said in a conspiratorial tone, chewing absently on a piece of gum.

The sound of her teeth smacking together set Jim on edge. "He's a surgeon; it happens."

"This was a little girl, only six years old. They say she never had a chance." The receptionist tried unsuccessfully to look sad; empathy clearly wasn't part of her make-up. "Parents took it real hard; mom was in hysterics, had to sedate her . . ."

Jim was no longer listening. "Where'd he go?" he snapped.

"The dad?"

"No, dammit. McCoy." 

She recoiled as if slapped. "How should I know? I'm not his secretary."

Jim turned away, pulled out his communicator and called Bones. The lack of response indicated that McCoy had turned off his own comms unit. A call to his room also produced no answer. Jim could probably count on one hand the number of times Bones had made himself unavailable and those times invariably had two things in common. Bones wasn't on duty and he was drunk. Whereas Jim typically took out his frustration in the local bars, McCoy was more intense, more private and preferred to drink his booze – and drown his sorrows – in private. Jim was pretty damn sure that Bones was in his dorm room, either sulking or . . . worse. It was the 'or worse' that scared him.


	14. Dr Kirk

"Dammit, Bones, open up!" Jim had given up hailing his friend and had resorted to the old-fashioned way of announcing his presence – pounding on the door to McCoy's dorm room. The door remained stubbornly closed and the inside of the room ominously silent. Bones either wouldn't – or couldn't – let him in.

He could call security. Of course he'd first have to convince them that Bones was either injured or in danger and he had no proof of either. Second, such a call would either go on McCoy's record or his own; if Bones wasn't in his room, he'd be furious. Of course, if Jim continued to pound on the door, someone would eventually call security on _him._ He stood silently for a moment, trying to decide what to do.

Jim took a deep breath and pulled a small device from his pocket. The dorm doors were programmed to respond to their owner's retinal scan but also had electronics that allowed for the visitor entry. There were various levels of security residents could program into the system to make forced entry more difficult; Bones was too lazy to install any of them. "They'd break in and steal what exactly?" he'd asked when Jim suggested he might want to update his security settings. Now, Jim played with his toy for a few seconds, aimed it at the door, made an adjustment, and pointed it again. The door slid open and he slipped inside.

As a physician who had duty at all hours of the night and was on call much of the rest of the time, Bones was entitled to single quarters. While smaller than those Kirk shared, McCoy at least had them to himself. The décor was the same – institutional paint and furniture designed for function, not ambiance.

"Bones? Bones! Hey McCoy? You in here?" Jim quickly made his way through the main room, glanced into the empty bathroom, and approached the darkened bedroom. "Lights." The computer automatically raised the lights to full intensity.

He sighed with frustration at the sight that greeted him. Bones, still in scrubs splattered with dried blood, lay splayed across the bed, face up, feet with shoes still on dangling over the edge. His eyes were closed, right arm resting across his eyes. Damn, what the hell had Bones done to himself?

An empty bottle of bourbon lay sideways on the floor next to the shattered remains of what was probably once a glass tumbler. The stench of alcohol was overpowering.

"Bones," he said softly, taking a tentative step into the room.

Bones didn't open his eyes, didn't so much as move. "Get out," he said in a voice that lacked inflection.

Well, at least McCoy was alive and that fact he was coherent enough to talk was a good sign. "It's okay," Jim said softly, edging closer. "I know what happened."

His words elicited no response and no movement. Jim had seen Bones drunk many times – happy drunk, mad drunk, giddy drunk, sarcastic drunk. But never drunk like this. He stood there, having no clue what in the world what to do. He knew what he should do –figure out how drunk McCoy was, and then do something to help him.

A few things stood in his way. Handling a drunk of McCoy's size was no easy matter. More importantly, Jim understood – or at least thought he understood – why Bones was drunk and could hardly blame him. Bones fought death every day; it wasn't surprising that every once in a while, when he lost the battle, he wanted to drown his frustration in alcohol.

There was a gurgling noise and McCoy's body tensed. While Jim was trying to decide what that meant, Bones suddenly leaned over the edge of the bed and heaved vomit onto the floor. The retching seemed to go on forever until, apparently spent, Bones rolled onto his back.

Jim didn't think anything could overwhelm the smell of alcohol in the room; the vomit did that and more. He fought off the waves of nausea that threatened to send his own bile flying. Breathe through your mouth, Bones had once told him, and he now tried to make use of that advice as he stepped over the vomit and broken glass to reach Bones' still form. How many times had Bones admonished him, "Keep this up, Jim, and you're going to drown in your own puke." Once he'd dared ask whether that was medically true or just Bones being Bones.

"It's called aspiration," McCoy had replied and then proceeded to give him a gory lecture about exactly what would happen if vomit got sucked back into your lungs, a lesson Jim hadn't forgotten.

"Come on, Bones," he said now, hands on his friend's shoulder and hip. "Need to roll you onto your side. Can't let you swallow your puke."

Bones didn't resist, which Jim found oddly frightening. With Bones safely on his side, Jim took a few minutes to clean up the mess on the floor then went to the kitchen and retrieved a bowl for the next time McCoy felt the need to hurl.

Back in the bedroom, Bones hadn't moved. Jim had been smashed enough times in his life to realize that alcohol poisoning was a distinct possibility. "Bones, how much did you drink?"

McCoy still didn't answer, didn't move.

Jim shook his shoulder, then lightly slapped his face. "Come on, how much?"

The only response was a gurgle. Hell, he wished their positions were reversed. As a doctor, Bones would know what to do and Jim was starting to wish he'd paid more attention to all the doctor stuff McCoy did when _he_ was drunk. Of course, given that he was usually drunk at the time, it was hard to remember more than a scowl, a scan, a hypo in the neck and, depending on Bones' mood in dosing him, maybe a hangover. And, of course, the requisite lecture from Bones and his own promise never, ever to do it again – until the next time.

Shit, what was he thinking? McCoy was a _doctor_, which meant he had a medikit, which he always kept in his room, in—

Jim darted across the room and pulled open the drawer where McCoy usually stashed his kit. Please be here, he silently prayed, exhaling loudly when his hands closed around the small black object. Returning to McCoy's side, he pulled out the scanner and tricorder, staring at them in consternation. They were different, more sophisticated models than they'd used for first aid training. How the hell did he turn the damn things on? Why hadn't he paid more attention the dozens of times he'd watched Bones use them? After a few anxious seconds, they came on in response to his body heat.

Thank God for first aid class, Jim thought to himself as he angled the scanner at McCoy. His initial elation was quickly replaced with irritation. They'd only been taught how to conduct basic assessments. Jim knew what was wrong – Bones was drunk. He needed to figure out how drunk and what magic potion in McCoy's kit might bring him out of it – and didn't have a clue how to use the medical instruments to do either.

"Hey Bones, need some help here." Receiving no response, he tried again. "Bones, help me out."

"Go to hell." Bones sounded as if he was holding a dozen marbles in his mouth.

"Well, at least you're talking. Look, you know I have no idea how to use these damn things. Now either pull yourself out of your funk long enough to help me or I'm going to have to call medical. And you're not gonna like that."

It was the same threat Bones had used on him a year ago when he'd summoned the doctor after being stabbed in a bar fight. He could only hope that Bones would be equally unwilling to have him summon help and thus equally willing to cooperate.

McCoy's body contorted in response. This time Jim recognized the signs and managed to get the bowl under his friend's chin in the nick of time. Breathe through your mouth, he reminded himself, as McCoy expelled the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl. Jim was quickly gaining newfound respect for the medical personnel to whom this puking thing was routine.

He again held up the medical instruments. "Bones, either tell me how to use these or how much you drank." He paused for effect. "Or I call medical right now."

"Fuck you."

"That wasn't one of your choices." Jim opened his comms unit.

"Half bottle." Bones spat out the words.

Holy hell. By Jim's estimation, McCoy had been drinking for slightly more than an hour. Even James T. Kirk, liquor consumer extraordinaire, had never downed that much in such a short time. It was a wonder the man wasn't dead. Much as he didn't want to call medical, he feared that, if he didn't, Bones might well die on him.

"Ugh, isn't that enough to . . . do something really bad?"

The doctor burped loudly. "Antidote's in the kit."

There was an antidote to _this_? Or was it all a figment of Bones' drunken imagination? Unfamiliar hands fumbled with the medical pouch, sifting through vials in all sorts of shapes and colors. Some had names, some numbers. One or two Jim recognized; most were totally unfamiliar. "Which one?" he asked.

Not hearing an answer, he repeated his question. "Bones, which one of these things do I use?"

This time when he didn't get a response, he looked down at his friend. His eyes were closed. He shook the Bones' shoulder, called his name, all without success, then finally touched a hand to Bones' neck, exhaling in relief at the throbbing of a pulse under his fingers. Bones was alive but unconscious. And with him went the knowledge of the antidote.

Jim racked his brain trying to remember the names of some of McCoy's doctor friends he might call. He couldn't think of any and, even if he could, wasn't sure Bones would want his colleagues to see him like this. A blind call to medical asking drug and dosing information for alcohol poisoning would only get them both in trouble. He was running out of options. How did a non-doctor figure out what drug to give? Suddenly, an idea hit him – not perfect but the best option at the moment.

"Bones, hold on," he said to the nonresponsive form. "I'll be right back."

In the main room, he quickly accessed McCoy's computer using his own log-in. When the automatic voice said, "working," Jim exhaled loudly in relief. "Physician's pharmaceutical reference guide," he quickly ordered.

"That guide is restricted to medical professionals. James T. Kirk is not listed as a medical professional. Please provide your credentials."

Shit. He could try to hack in as McCoy but that would take too much time. Maybe he could still get the information he needed. "Medical library."

"Working," the computer replied automatically. "State your query."

"What are the symptoms of alcohol poisoning?"

"Symptoms of alcohol poisoning include confusion, vomiting, slow breathing, hypothermia, unconsciousness . . ."

Yeah, yeah. Bones had at least a couple of those. "What do you do for alcohol poisoning?"

"The best method for preventing alcohol poisoning is abstinence from alcohol."

No shit. He stole a quick glance through the bedroom door where McCoy's position hadn't shifted. He tried again. "What _drug_ is used to treat alcohol poisoning?"

"The preferred antidote for alcohol poisoning is Decol."

Decol. Decol. He ran back to the bedroom and retrieved the medikit, looking through the vials. No Decol, nothing even close. Dammnit. He fought the urge to toss the thing against the nearest wall. Instead, he grabbed the kit and returned to the computer. "Computer, alternative names for Decol."

"The generic name for Decol is Noraldanine, number 41-B025 in the Standard Pharmacopeia.

"What about the Starfleet Pharmacopeia?"

"Please make your question more specific."

Jim resisted the urge to swear at the goddamn computer. "What is the number of Noraldanine in the Starfleet Pharmacopeia?" he enunciated with much more patience than he felt.

"Starfleet uses the same reference numbers as the Standard Pharmacopeia. The number is 41-B025."

Jim again searched through the collection of vials. It had to be in here. What if there was another remedy – what if Bones didn't use the treatment of choice? What if he hadn't restocked his kit? Finally, with only two vials remaining, he found it, a small container of amber liquid with the number B025 on the outside. No "41," but that had to be it, didn't it? Now he had to figure out how much of the stuff to dispense.

"Computer, what is the dosage for Noraldanine?"

"Standard dosage is point two milligrams per kilogram."

Jim estimated that Bones weighed about 85 kilos, which meant 18 milligrams. Leaving the computer, he returned to the bedroom where Bones was still out cold. Jim grabbed the hypo and inserted the vial, then set the dosage at the calculated amount. He started to inject it into McCoy's carotid then pulled back. What in the world was he doing? What if this wasn't the right drug, what if the dosage was wrong, what if Bones was allergic to this shit? He could end up killing the man.

Maybe there wasn't anything even seriously wrong. Maybe Bones was kidding about the amount he'd had to drink and had simply passed out. Maybe he'd wake up in a few minutes and decide for himself what medical treatment he did or didn't need.

Another check of Bones' vitals showed his breathing slower than it had been earlier; no more than ten breaths a minute and skin was cool to the touch – both symptoms of alcohol poisoning according to the computer. Jim's gaze alternated between the hypo and his personal communicator. One quick call would bring competent medical professionals who knew exactly what to do. And maybe the end of Bones' career. Bones had saved his sorry ass; looked like it was time to return the favor.

He ran a sweaty hand across his face, stalling for time or gathering courage, he wasn't sure which. Finally, with a determined sigh, his hand gripped the hypo and pressed it to Bones' neck. _Please wake up, puke, do something so I don't have to do this._ His plea was rewarded only with slow, sibilant breathing. Jim bit down on his lip, depressed the plunger, and heard the hiss of medicine rushing into Bones' bloodstream.

He leaned back and stared at Bones' unmoving form. What the hell had he just done?


	15. An Explanation

Bones was still on his bed, leaning against the headboard, eyes bloodshot, nursing what had to be the hangover from hell, but alive, awake, and more or less okay. At least in Jim's professional medical opinion. There'd been more than a few scary moments after he'd given the injection. At first there'd been no change and Jim had been forced to check McCoy's pulse to ensure he was still alive. Then, without warning, he'd vomited again. And again. Jim wasn't sure whether that was good or bad but, as long as Bones was puking, he was alive and that was definitely better than the alternative.

Jim handed Bones a glass of water. Bones frowned but took it and carefully rinsed out his mouth. "You gave me Decol, didn't you?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"I'm a doctor, you moron. Decol makes you puke your guts out and leaves you a nasty hangover as a reminder. It's what you give patients when you want to teach them a lesson, make them think twice about getting drunk again. Lamatadine is gentler – changes the chemical composition of the alcohol so that it's less toxic to the body."

Damn, even hungover as hell, Bones still talked like a doctor. And, Jim realized, Bones had given him Decol at least a few times in the past; next time he'd know what to ask for. He smiled. "Now you tell me." There was no contrition in his voice.

"Jim, did you ever stop to think that I didn't want the goddamn antidote?" McCoy growled. "Besides your little stunt could have killed me. What if you'd given me the wrong drug? The wrong dose? What if I'd been allergic? Then what would you have done?

Jim refused to apologize. "Shit, Bones, what was I supposed to do? Let you die?"

Bones scowled and cleared his throat loudly. "I wasn't going to die. I just wanted to get knocked-down, smashing drunk.

"The little girl?" Jim asked, trying to give Bones an opening without forcing the conversation.

McCoy sighed, closed his eyes and leaned back into the headboard. "They told you."

"Not really. I overheard a couple of residents talking—"

A groan. "Oh great, add compromising patient confidentiality to our list of sins."

"What happened?"

McCoy waved a hand dismissively. "It's not important."

Jim wasn't going to let him get away this easily. "I've never seen you this drunk. It's important."

For a moment, Bones said nothing. His eyes held a faraway expression as if he were reliving a painful experience. "A patient died on the table."

"You're a surgeon," Jim said. "That has to happen every now and then."

"I couldn't save her." McCoy's voice threatened to crack. "Dammit, she was only six."

Jim let the statement hang in the air between them for a moment, unsure what to say. The residents had said it wasn't Bones' fault. Did McCoy think he was to blame or was he merely upset that a young child had died? This couldn't be the first child he'd lost – what made this kid so special? "From what I heard, she was all but DOA."

Bones bit his lip and his bloodshot eyes burned. "Jim, shut up. Just shut the fuck up. You don't know anything about it."

Jim flinched at the snap of anger in McCoy's voice. Obviously, he'd said the wrong thing. He started to respond, then thought better of it. He really didn't know anything more than he'd overheard. And, to be fair, he really didn't know what it was like to have someone's life in your hands and to watch the life slip away despite your best efforts to prevent it. Maybe it was routine to a surgeon like Bones, but he guessed that a surgeon like Bones didn't want death to become routine, at least not on his watch, and especially not with six-year-old kids. Still, there was some reason Bones had reacted like this.

Time for the direct approach. "Want to tell me about it?" Jim asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Bones shook his head. "Not really."

"It might help."

Bones looked at him with bloodshot eyes. "Getting drunk again would help more."

At the risk of incurring more of Bones' wrath, he tried again. "She can't be the first kid you've lost—"

"Why is it we always talk about losing patients? As if we've misplaced them, that if we look long enough and hard enough, we'll find them again." McCoy stared at his hands, rubbing his fingers together. "They're dead, not lost."

Jim decided not to respond to that comment. Lost, passed, went to heaven . . . all euphemisms designed to make being dead sound less dire, less threatening, less terrible. "What made her so special?" he asked after a moment.

Bones turned toward the wall and, for over a minute, didn't answer. Jim once again feared he'd said the wrong thing, that he'd driven Bones away, back into his personal hell. Finally, Bones turned to face him. "You know I was married." It was a statement, not a question.

Jim nodded, not sure where this was going.

"You never asked if we had kids."

No he hadn't but, then again, Jim wasn't big on personal questions. He'd learned over the years that if you asked them, other people were likely to return the favor, and he had no desire to discuss his personal life with others. Pike was as close as he'd come to exposing his personal history and that was a lot closer than he was comfortable with.

"Do you?" he finally asked, eyebrows frowning at the thought of Bones as a father. "Have kids, that is?"

Bones had never said anything to suggest he had children. Of course, he had said his ex had taken everything in the divorce – did everything include everyone? Confused, he waited for an answer.

"No, I don't have kids." Bones said simply.

Something about the way he said it – and the fact Bones had raised the issue in the first place – told Jim there was more to the story.

"Come on, don't make me play shrink here. Save us both some time and tell me what put your damn nose in the bottle."

"Why don't you leave it be, leave me be for that matter."

"Can't do it. Either tell me or we're going to play twenty questions and with your hangover that won't be much fun."

"Bastard." McCoy closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the top of the headboard. After a silence that Jim fought not to interrupt, Bones opened his eyes and started talking, voice soft and monotone.

"Jocelyn and I wanted kids, at least at first. Certainly tried hard enough. It took a year and some help from fertility meds but she finally got pregnant. Baby came nine months later – a baby girl, Joanna, we called her. She was beautiful – had her mom's blonde hair, although not much of it – and my eyes. Hell, she was perfect." Bones eyes had turned glassy, with the faraway stare common to those retelling the past. "Jocelyn was happy; I was happy. Everything was perfect."

"And," Jim almost whispered after a moment, almost afraid for Bones to continue, certain that this story didn't have a happy ending.

Bones sighed. "Joanna died two months later." The voice was cold, impersonal. "Virus destroyed her lungs. She lay in the incubator gasping for breath and there wasn't a damned thing I or any other goddamn doctor could do."

That explained . . . a lot. The divorce, the bitterness, the drinking, the escape into Starfleet.

"Did she blame you?"

Bones shook his head. "Wish it were that simple. No, she didn't blame me for that." McCoy took another drink of water. "After Joanna died, Jocelyn wanted to get pregnant again, have another baby right away. I . . . I didn't. I couldn't. I could never see replacing Joanna and trying to have another child, at least so soon, seemed like we were trying to do just that.

"It was all Jocelyn could think about – having another baby. When I wouldn't . . . cooperate . . . everything went to hell. I started spending more time at work and she started spending more time with . . . fucking other guys."

"Shit." It sounded inadequate but it was all Jim could think of to say.

Bones shrugged. "It's over and done with."

Jim tried to process all that Bones had just said. He'd had a baby, lost a baby. No, _his_ baby, his flesh and blood, had died. His marriage had fallen apart. And something had happened during surgery that had brought it all back.

"How long ago?" Jim asked, suddenly suspecting what had happened.

Bones eyed him lazily. "How long ago what?"

"How long ago did your daughter die?"

Bones gave him a long look. "You already know the answer, you bastard. Six years ago, next week. Joanna would have been the same age as the girl who died today."

Jim reached out a hand. "It's okay."

He jerked away from the touch. "No, it's not okay. It's not okay that my daughter died six years ago and definitely not okay that a six-year-old girl who was doing nothing more than playing in the street is dead and that I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it from happening."

"Bones, I—"

"Goddamnit Jim. I got drunk and you stupidly gave me something to make me sober. Maybe I owe you one. But that doesn't mean I have to share every one of my fucking feelings with you. This isn't the first time this has happened and I'm sure it won't be the last. Nothing you can say's going to make me feel better. So do me a favor and get the hell out of here."

Jim wanted to say something but suspected that Bones was right – there was nothing he _could_ say. Bones had lived with this for six years and there wasn't much Jim could do or say to change anything. And he didn't think McCoy would want him to try.

Better to be a friend. Jim shook his head. "Sorry, I can't let you drink yourself to death."

"I won't."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "You were certainly fucked up when I showed up. And I know you have that exam tomorrow in . . . "

"Molecular cytogenics."

"Right."

"Go home."

Jim hesitated. Bones was probably right; he'd sleep off the hangover and be fine. The man was an adult, a doctor, and had obviously dealt with this sort of thing before. Jim should go back to his own dorm and study for his own tests.

Still, how many times had Bones been there for him in the past year – times when he'd been drunk, beaten up, angry, frustrated, unhappy. Bones always patched him up, physically and mentally, and provided a stern lecture free of charge. Time to return the favor, this time without the lecture.

He stood up from the chair and slowly stretched out his muscles. "How about I go get us some Andorian stir-fry?"

"What part about 'get out' didn't you understand?" The words were harsh but McCoy's voice lacked any anger.

"The part that tells me you shouldn't be alone right now. If you want to ignore me, that's okay. But I'm going to stay here all night, if for no other reason than to make sure you don't drown in your own puke. I seem to recall some half-ass doctor telling me that's important."

"Obviously an idiot."

Jim could have sworn that McCoy almost cracked a smile and decided to press his apparent advantage. "Come on, some food will do you good."

"You don't give up, do you?"

"No one ever taught me how to quit."

Bones leaned back against the headboard and took a deep breath. "Me either, kid. Me either."


	16. On Call Year 2 Pike

_On Call – Year 2_

Captain Christopher Pike pushed against the half-opened door and barged into the office without knocking. "Hey Boyce, need your help . . . ."

He allowed his voice to trail off in mid-sentence and came to a stop three steps into the room. The man seated at the desk of the medical duty officer looked up at him with a puzzled frown. Pike's eyes automatically scanned his uniform; the rank and insignia showed that the person in front of him was both a Starfleet cadet and a fully qualified physician, which was an unusual combination. And he was definitely not Phillip Boyce, the doctor Pike had expected to find in this room at this hour.

The young doctor stood up from behind the desk. "Captain Pike, I'm Dr. McCoy, can I help you?"

Of course the doctor would recognize him even in the civilian clothes he now wore – as head of training at the Academy, his was a face every cadet knew only too well.

Pike frowned. "Where's Boyce? He's supposed to be on duty tonight." While Boyce couldn't entirely avoid routine medical officer duty, his seniority allowed him to select pretty much whatever shift he wanted. Boyce preferred to work nights – liked the solitude.

"I switched with him. Something about tonight being his anniversary."

Pike allowed his features to morph into a tight smile that was more of a grimace for assuming Boyce would be on duty tonight without actually checking. "Good excuse, I suppose." Pike wasn't a huge fan of doctors but had carved out a decent working relationship with Boyce, starting when they'd served together aboard the _Intrepid_. Boyce didn't make a big deal out of minor medical problems, provided Pike was honest with him about the major ones.

Something about McCoy looked vaguely familiar but Pike couldn't quite place him. Pike made it his business to know something about most of the cadets under his command. Medical personnel were an exception; they came under the purview of Starfleet Medical and the Surgeon General. But for the fact that they wore the same uniform and served in the same locations, it was almost as if the medical corps was a separate entity from Starfleet Command. They even did their own recruiting, which was why Pike wasn't involved in signing up doctors and other medical personnel. That made sense, as Pike and other Starfleet recruiters didn't have the first idea of whether someone was a good doctor or nurse – which, ironically, was part of his current problem in that he didn't have a feel for McCoy's abilities.

Once in Starfleet, most medical personnel were put on a "short track." They were typically more senior than the average new Starfleet officer and had been brought into Starfleet to take care of the sick and injured. Their introduction to Starfleet was rudimentary – the minimum they needed to survive their first few weeks in the field. The rest they'd learn on the job because, less than four months after signing on, most doctors and nurses were already in the fleet.

The exception was the medical students, who often combined their medical studies with an abbreviated Academy course. In Pike's view, there were many benefits to this approach, not the least of which was that the doctors were more fully integrated into Starfleet regulations and procedures. They also tended to make friends outside the medical community, which helped make them a Starfleet officer first, and a medical officer second.

It was rare for a fully-qualified physician to go through the Academy course and rare for Starfleet Medical to permit it, as it delayed the doctor's posting to a ship or starbase where his or her services were most needed. From what Pike had seen, the physicians who did go through the entire Academy program were considered among the better qualified doctors in the pipeline. And that meant that McCoy was probably reasonably competent.

Still, Pike knew Boyce, and didn't know McCoy. A young doctor – a cadet no less – would probably run a dozen unnecessary tests if only to cover his own ass. He knew how these kids operated – on the one hand, they loved using their medical toys and on the other were damn afraid of making a mistake or missing something. Pike mentally shook his head. Shit, he'd be here the whole night. He started backing out of the room. "Sorry to disturb you, Doctor. I'll follow up with Boyce tomorrow—"

McCoy's steely eyes locked onto his. "You're here at the clinic at 0200. That means whatever's bothering you is urgent, personal, or both."

Pike couldn't escape the unnerving sense that he was being examined even as he stood here. "It can wait until morning," he replied, drawing on his command voice to enforce his will.

McCoy tilted his head. "I'm not so sure of that."

"Look, McCoy, I'm sure you're a competent doctor but I've known Phil Boyce for a long time and I'd rather—"

"You'd rather see him. I understand. But right now I'm here and he's not, and now would be a good time to deal with whatever brought you here."

Pike sighed. It was going to be hard to convince this McCoy fellow to disregard a problem that was important enough to send Pike to the clinic in the middle of the night, and too hard to explain that he'd come in the middle of the night because he expected to find Phil Boyce who would give him some good drugs without asking too many questions. For what seemed like an eternity he contemplated whether to admit anything and, if so, what. Finally, he decided to use his natural authority to cover his discomfiture. "It's nothing serious. I've been having a bit of the runs."

McCoy didn't even blink. "How many days?"

Pike flinched. "About a week."

"Bloody?"

Pike glanced down and nervously chewed on his lip. God, this was embarrassing. Why the hell hadn't he walked out the minute he realized Boyce wasn't here? "Usually when this happens Boyce gives me some little blue pills that take care of it." Pike was a master at deflecting questions. "This time, they didn't work."

McCoy's eyebrows climbed. "So, I take it this happens frequently?"

_Goddammit_. "Not frequently." Pike was sure his face was flushed. "Well, maybe it's happened a couple of times."

"You didn't answer my original question. Have you had blood in your stool?"

No shit he hadn't answered. Was it a surprise that he didn't want to talk about bloody diarrhea with some doctor he'd never met before? "I really haven't paid much attention," he lied smoothly. Well, not a lie exactly, just not the whole truth in that the one time he'd paid attention he had seen a trace of blood. He didn't think his answer had fooled McCoy for an instant. "Doctor, can't you just give me something for tonight?" he asked with more than a touch of impatience. "I promise I'll check in with Boyce tomorrow."

"I like to examine my patients before prescribing anything and, since you're already here and obviously in some discomfort, there's no reason to wait until morning."

It was like being a butterfly pinned to the wall. Even though he was free to leave, there was no escape from McCoy's persistent gaze and relentless interrogation. "I'm sure it's nothing serious," Pike repeated in a voice filled with more hope than certainty.

McCoy nodded toward the adjoining exam room. "In here, Captain. It won't take long." It was an order if Pike had ever heard one.

Pike smiled to cover his frustration. There had to be a way out. For God's sake, he only had a bout of diarrhea – there was no need for McCoy to turn this into a major problem. He could simply refuse, walk out of this room and this hospital. As a cadet, McCoy wouldn't dare challenge him. Or would he? Any other cadet, and most doctors for that matter, would have backed down the moment the infamous Captain Pike had opened his mouth. Not McCoy. There was something about this cadet doctor that was unsettling, that demanded obedience despite the fact that Pike was the senior officer.

He tried one last time. "Cadet." The use of McCoy's rank was more than intentional. "I'm sure you have sick patients to take care of."

McCoy came around the desk, leaning against the front and crossing his arms in a manner that conveyed confidence rather than disrespect. "Captain, I may be a cadet, but I'm also a doctor and good at what I do. For the moment, that's taking care of Starfleet personnel, which includes you. You have persistent, probably bloody, diarrhea that isn't responding to Chlorporazine – the blue pills Boyce gave you – which should have nipped it in the bud. Your symptoms are bad enough to bring you to medical in the middle of the night. Now you can either let me examine you or I can call Dr. Boyce on his anniversary and drag him in here to see you. Which will it be?" And, then almost as an afterthought, he added, "Sir."

Not without apprehension, Pike allowed himself to be led into the exam room. At McCoy's direction, he lay supine on a biobed, staring at the ceiling while the doctor studied the monitors hidden from view above his head. The fact they seemed to fascinate him only fed Pike's irritation and he fought the urge to fidget with the edge of the table.

"You're dehydrated," McCoy said without taking his eyes from the multi-colored projection over the biobed. "Not surprising given your symptoms. I'll order some fluid replacement therapy when we're done here."

Great. Another reason he should have escaped while he had the chance. The doctor picked up a scanner and ran it over his torso, checking his findings against the monitors. With little else to do, Pike stared up at the intense eyes. Christ, the man didn't look a day over thirty, almost young enough to be his son, other than perhaps the fine lines around his eyes and between his brows.

"What's your specialty, Doctor?" he asked, curious as to what could cause such a young man to seem so worldly-wise.

"Trauma surgery," McCoy replied, flicking his eyes briefly away from the screens.

That explained his tyrannical nature but also raised more than a few questions. "What's a surgeon doing here as a Starfleet cadet?" Medical cadets tended to be med students, residents and occasionally a general practitioner looking for more adventure than dealing with snotty-nosed kids. Pike wasn't sure he'd ever seen a surgeon in this role.

"Long story." McCoy's voice was clipped and punctuated with a sour grimace.

"And, unless I miss my guess, one you're not anxious to tell me." Pike squinted up at him again. The man definitely looked familiar. "McCoy, I can't shake the feeling we've met before."

McCoy didn't meet his gaze. "Transport from Iowa to the Academy a couple of years ago."

Of course, now he remembered. The unshaven guy with the attitude, not to mention whiff of alcohol on his breath. Pike tried to reconcile that man, who appeared to have a few issues with authority, with the clean shaven, slightly arrogant surgeon towering above him. "As I recall, you seemed to have some ambivalence about joining Starfleet."

The only reaction was a tightening of the doctor's jaw. "Captain, while I'm sure my motivations for joining Starfleet are fascinating, let's focus on _your_ medical condition. Any other symptoms you want to tell me about?"

"Such as?" As if he was going to admit to anything more than absolutely necessary.

McCoy pushed up his shirt and carefully pressed on his abdomen. Didn't the man trust scanners?

"Such as abdominal tenderness."

Damn, it did hurt and Pike tried not to flinch at the firm touch, which was probably payback for the personal questions. He made a mental note to check McCoy's personnel file – if he ever got out of this exam room. "Yeah, sometimes it hurts," he acknowledged through gritted teeth.

The pressure didn't let up. "Would it be fair to assume now is one of those times?"

Pike started to prop himself up on his elbows. "Look, McCoy, I've had just about enough of your scanning and poking. We both know I'm not dying, so give me something—"

"How long have you had this rash?"

"Huh?" Pike twisted his neck to see whatever McCoy was talking about.

"This rash on your abdomen." McCoy pointed to the spot. "How long's it been there?"

Pike's eyes followed the doctor's finger to a small red patch with straight raised wheals, maybe a few centimeters in size just below and to the right of his navel. It looked as if he'd scratched himself, yet he had no memory of doing so. "I don't know. Is it important?"

"It might be," McCoy replied noncommittally. "Take off your shirt and pants; I want to see if it's anywhere else on your body."

Ten minutes, a thorough exam, and two additional patches of rash later, McCoy stepped away from the bed, crossed his arms and absently rubbed his chin with his thumb. "Have you been off planet recently?"

Damned doctors, always asking questions instead of providing answers, especially when patients were sitting nearly naked on an exam bed. "I visited Thallia, Denebia and Mironos last month," he replied, not quite able to keep the irritation out of his voice, "nothing else in the last few months at least."

McCoy frowned. "How about foreign delegations? Folks are traipsing through this place every day. Have you met with any of them? 

"Is there something particular you have in mind, Doctor?" He too could play twenty questions and was determined to resurrect some level of authority.

"To be honest, Captain, your symptoms are consistent with a viral infection caused by a form of Maloxian parasite. It's rare and the parasite is only passed via person-to-person contact."

"It's an STD?"

He could have sworn McCoy almost laughed. "Well, I suppose it could be passed through sexual contact, but the usual means of transmission is sneezing, coughing, or even shaking hands."

Okay, it was a virus. What was the big deal? "Can't you just test me for it?"

"There's no definitive test for the disease in its early stages. There's a treatment that's very effective in someone who has the disease. The problem is that it can be toxic if the virus isn't present."

"And if you don't treat me?"

"The virus spreads through the small intestine, which would require surgical repair. My concern is that may be happening already, which may explain that abdominal pain."

"So all those tests you ran didn't tell you anything?"

To his credit, McCoy held his ground. "They tell me quite a bit, but not everything. If what I suspect is correct, it's a complicated condition. Even today, Captain, there are things for which medicine doesn't always have the perfect answer."

Pike reached for his clothes; it was cold in here. When McCoy didn't object, he pulled the sweatshirt over his head. "Well, you're the expert, _Doctor_ McCoy. What are you going to do?"

McCoy met his eyes, not acknowledging the attempt at a dressing down. "Tonight, I'm going to admit you and give you fluids and medication to relieve your immediate symptoms. In the meantime, I'll follow up with our infectious disease specialists and get their views."

"But you think you're right, don't you? You're pretty damn sure I've got this Maloxy thing."

"Maloxian parasitic infection," he corrected. "Yes, Captain, I think you do. The rash is a pretty definitive sign."

Time to test the kid. "What would you do if you were out in space, on a starship, on your own, out of contact with the folks at Starfleet Medical?"

McCoy shook his head. "We're not. We're here at Starfleet Medical where some of the best specialists are only a few doors away. There's no reason to try a risky treatment without consulting them."

"I'm well aware of that, Doctor McCoy. What I asked is what you'd do if we were in the middle of some uncharted galaxy."

McCoy didn't hesitate. "I'd give you the treatment."

Pike tilted his head in a show of surprise. "Even though it might kill me."

A sigh. "Even though it might kill you."

It was Pike's turn to sigh while biting his lower lip. "I appreciate the candor and, believe it or not, I'm beginning to think you're a pretty damned good doctor. But, I've known Phil Boyce for years. Assuming it won't make me worse, I'd like to get his input before doing anything."

"Of course. In the meantime, I'll get you started on some fluids to improve your hydration level."

Pike shook his head. "Forget it, McCoy. I'm going home. And I promise," he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, "to drink lots of water and report back here first thing in the morning."

McCoy pressed his lips together. "Captain, you may be able to issue orders everywhere else at Starfleet Academy. But not here. I'm in charge here and I'll decide what medical treatment you need and when. Right now, your lack of hydration is wreaking havoc on your electrolytes and your urine output is probably in the tank. You need to stay here until I can get that sorted out."

Interesting. The man was cocky but not enough of an egotist to endanger his patients simply to prove a point. "You're a stubborn SOB."

"I'm a practical SOB."

Although Pike wanted nothing less than to spend the night here, he wasn't an idiot. The damn kid seemed to know what he was talking about and, if Pike had indeed contracted this strange disease, he was undoubtedly better off staying here. Besides, he didn't think McCoy was about to release him, and now had all the medical ammunition he needed to enforce his decision.

With a pronounced sigh, Pike lay back onto the biobed. "Unfortunately, you're the doctor."

McCoy finally smiled. "Fortunately for you, I'm _your_ doctor."


	17. A Reluctant Patient

Pike couldn't quite decide whether, as a hospital patient, it was better having visitors or not having them. Mostly, he reflected, it depended on the identity of the visitor. As a patient, you generally looked like shit and felt like shit, and therefore didn't necessarily want distant friends and people with whom you worked to see you. Pike knew that the folks who worked with him would all want to stop by – either out of friendship or obligation — and had therefore limited his visitors to those with whom he absolutely needed to discuss Academy business. The list wasn't long. On the other hand, being in a hospital was boring and relying on medical personnel as your primary source of human interaction got old quickly.

The last 36 hours had been filled with a succession of scans, exams, infusions, pills, and hyposprays, not to mention the procession of doctors and nurses and techs who invaded every waking – and sleeping – moment with questions and procedures that ranged from exasperating to downright embarrassing.

He'd grudgingly allowed Boyce to take over his care. As Phil had pointed out, McCoy was a surgeon and this was a case for the internal medicine and infectious disease experts. Pike found himself somewhat disappointed, as the young medic with the attitude had unexpectedly intrigued him and, for some inexplicable reason, he rather wanted McCoy to continue as his physician.

It would have been a hard sell to Boyce. What was he supposed to say? _Hey, Phil, we've known each other for years and you've been my doctor almost as long, but I want this doctor I met for the first time last night and who admits he's never even seen this disease before to take care of me?_ Yeah, that would have gone over well.

Pike had wondered if McCoy would check up on him, out of medical curiosity if nothing else. He didn't think the surgeon could stay away forever. Thus, Pike was not entirely surprised, and oddly pleased, when McCoy stepped into his room not long after lunch on day two of his hospital stay.

"Dr. McCoy," he growled, doing his best to look stern, which was tough when you were lying in hospital bed in a regulation hospital gown. "About time the man who put me in this damn bed comes to see me."

McCoy appeared nonplussed. "Good afternoon to you, too, Captain. Are you up for a visitor?"

"Do I have a choice?" Pike said with a weariness that hid his pleasure at having a visitor who would be a match for his own wit and one who, unlike many of the medics, didn't seem at all flustered by his military seniority.

McCoy raised a single eyebrow. "Actually, you do. I'm not here as your doctor and you have every right to decline visitors." Pike noticed that, despite his protestations about this not being a medical visit, McCoy's eyes automatically scanned the overhead monitors. Pike wasn't surprised; from what he'd seen to date, he doubted McCoy ever stopped being a doctor.

"Don't be an ass. I'm bored to tears – at this point, even a visit from a doctor is better than nothing. Sit down," he said, waving McCoy toward the room's lone chair.

The doctor seated himself, crossing one leg over his knee and struggling to get comfortable in a manner that suggested that he wasn't fully at ease in the role of visitor. "How are you feeling?" he asked formally.

"Is that all you doctors ask?" When that produced no reaction from McCoy, he shrugged. "I feel fine."

"Is that all you patients say?" McCoy asked with a glint of amusement.

"Only the ones that want their doctors to let them out of here."

"The key to _that_ is following your doctors' orders."

"I still don't understand why I have to stay in this godforsaken place. Can't you guys poke and prod and jab me as an outpatient?"

"I'm sure the infectious disease specialists explained that your condition – and the medication used to treat it – can have unpredictable effects that need to be monitored carefully," McCoy said absently, eyes zeroing in on the uneaten lunch tray. "Don't like the cuisine?"

Pike brushed off the question. "No one likes hospital food."

"I'm sure Dr. Boyce has explained how important it is for you to eat."

Oh God, not McCoy nagging him too; he wasn't a five-year-old who needed to be told to eat his vegetables. Pike's eyes flashed in defiance. "I'm not hungry."

McCoy's face pinched with what Pike now recognized as diagnostic curiosity. "Is it that you're not hungry or that you _are_ nauseous?"

Goddammit. How had he figured that out? "Maybe a little," he admitted in a soft voice.

"Still have the diarrhea?"

Double dammit, not this again. "A little."

"What else?"

"What do you mean, 'what else?'"

"What other symptoms are you experiencing that you haven't told your doctors about?"

"What makes you think—?"

"Captain Pike," McCoy replied in a voice that struggled for a patience he obviously didn't feel, "give me a little credit. I'm not some first-year med student. I know when patients are hiding or minimizing symptoms. Now, I haven't read your chart but I'll be honest with you. You look like shit."

Before Pike realized what was happening, McCoy was at his side, tenting the skin on the back of his hand and greeting the result with a scowl. "Your hydration level is in the tank. Why the hell aren't you on forced fluid intake?"

Pike looked away. "I don't want it. It makes have to piss every five minutes."

McCoy rolled his eyes and, if anything, his scowl deepened. "What you _want_ doesn't matter. It's what you _need_ that counts and right now you need fluids and probably an anti-emetic as well." He pointedly stared at the overhead monitors, made a few adjustments and frowned. While McCoy might not officially be Pike's doctor, he was still a Starfleet physician and thus allowed to provide medical care.

"Something wrong?" Pike asked, not liking McCoy's expression.

"The meds should be having more of an effect by now," he said, almost as if talking to himself. "I wonder if something else isn't going on. Maybe a secondary infection . . . ." McCoy's gaze moved downward until it rested on his face. "I don't like what I'm seeing. Your liver enzymes are elevated, white blood cell count is too high, and you're somewhat febrile . . . feverish," he clarified. "I'm worried you may have picked up another infection that's inhibiting the effectiveness of the medications you've been given to counteract the parasitic infection."

Pike's mind raced to keep up. He thought he understood the gist of what McCoy was saying. "I'm getting worse?"

"Let's put it this way – you're not getting better as quickly as I'd expect. My guess is that you not only look like shit, you feel like shit. True?"

Pike considered his answer. The truth was likely to get him more meds and a longer stay in the hospital. Of course, lying could lead to the same outcome. His hesitation appeared to answer the question in McCoy's mind.

"Okay," the doctor said, "you sit tight. I'm going to follow up with Boyce, the ID folks, and whomever else I can find." He turned from the bed and started to stride from the room like a man on a mission. Suddenly, at the door, he turned around. "I guess I should ask if that's okay with you, given that I'm not officially your doctor."

Pike inexplicably found himself worried because McCoy seemed worried and, from what Pike had seen of McCoy to date, he didn't think the man was one to get carried away over nothing. Which could only mean that he was sicker than he thought and that the malaise that had plagued him all day wasn't normal or expected. He realized with a start that McCoy was standing at the door awaiting his permission to . . . well, probably to go give someone hell. That was something Pike wanted to see. And, if the result of the tirade was his getting well faster, so much the better.

During his years in command, Pike had learned that sometimes you had to go with your gut. Not irrationally, of course. Just that there were times when that sixth sense that made you a good commanding officer came more from a hunch than training or even rational thought. Now was one of these times. From the minute they'd met, McCoy seemed to have special insight into him, as a patient and probably as a man. During this short tenure, the young doctor had yet to be wrong. Pike trusted him. Yeah, the kid would probably keep him here at least a day longer than necessary, but during that time, Pike was pretty sure McCoy would do his level best to see that he got the best care possible. In a brief instant, he made his decision.

"Starting now, McCoy, you _are_ my doctor."

McCoy hesitated. "And Dr. Boyce?"

"Let me deal with that," he said smoothly.

Ten minutes later, McCoy and Dr. Chang, who'd been summoned from the Infectious Disease department, were engaged in a polite, but heated argument at his bedside. Although he was the focus of their attention, Pike didn't understand much of what they were saying.

"You can see that the Betamyazine isn't effective," McCoy said, pointing at the monitors. "And the WBC elevation indicates a secondary infection. Not to mention his electrolytes are out of balance."

"I disagree, Doctor. His transaminase and hemoglobin are normalizing as expected. Anyone familiar with this disease," he said, looking up his nose in disdain at the taller McCoy and speaking in a tone that made clear the surgeon was unqualified to opine on the issue, "knows that the cure isn't instantaneous."

"I'm familiar enough with Betamyazine to know that it's not supposed to cause hepatic injury," McCoy countered, and Pike noticed with interest that the doctor's drawl was becoming more pronounced. "You did note the elevated liver enzymes and total bilirubin? ALT and AST are more than ten times normal. Captain Pike is experiencing nausea, dehydration and, unless I miss my guess, persistent abdominal pain."

Pike did his best not to let guilt show on his face. His gut hadn't really stopped hurting, despite promises from the doctors and nurses yesterday that it should go away soon. Then again, he hadn't bothered to tell them he was still in pain.

It was interesting that McCoy was no more deferential to the senior and more experienced Chang than he had been to Pike. McCoy obviously thought he was onto something and was determined to impress his views on the infectious disease doc, who appeared equally determined to dismiss McCoy's concerns.

As head of training for the Academy, Pike was only responsible for McCoy's non-medical training. Starfleet Medical Command and the Surgeon General's office were in charge of Starfleet hospitals and the training that took place within them. Not that McCoy seemed to need much training. He might be "only a surgeon," as Chang had derogatorily stated, but Pike suspected that the surgeon had probably spent the last 24 hours reading up on Pike's disease and treatment protocols rather than sleeping. From Pike's admittedly uninformed perspective, McCoy seemed to be more than holding his own with Chang.

"So how do you explain the additional symptoms and lab results?" McCoy was saying.

Chang shook his head. "None of them is inconsistent with an infection caused by the Maloxian parasite."

McCoy crossed his arms. "And all of them could indicate something else is going on, and that something is interfering with the treatment for the parasitic infection."

"So what do _you_ propose we do, Dr. McCoy," Chang asked, not trying to hide the sneer in his voice.

"Complete workup, new set of scans."

Pike couldn't contain the groan that escaped his throat.

It was Chang's turn to roll his eyes. "_Complete_ waste of time."

"It's my time and, as of now," McCoy looked to Pike for support, "Captain Pike is my patient."

Chang didn't do a good job of hiding his surprise. "Is that true, sir?"

The least Pike could do was give the young man his vote of confidence. "Yes, Dr. Chang. I've asked Dr. McCoy to take over my care."

Chang's expression said, _Okay, sir, if you want to be an idiot._ The words that came out of his mouth were directed at McCoy. "Very well, Doctor," Chang snapped. "Have at it. Call me _if_ you find anything."

"Believe me, Doctor, you'll be the first to know."

The moment Chang left the room, Pike turned to McCoy. "You stood your ground with Dr. Chang."

McCoy shrugged. "Chang's a moron."

"Chang's the head of the infectious disease department in this hospital."

"He's too busy treating the disease instead of treating the patient. If he'd been paying more attention, he'd have seen that your condition isn't what it should be."

"Whatever, I'm impressed."

McCoy apparently wasn't going to take the opportunity to gloat or even savor his victory. "I'm not here to impress you, Captain. I'm here to diagnose and treat you." He snatched a scanner from the nearby table. "So, let's get started. Again."

Pike dropped his head back onto the bed. "I was afraid you'd say that." He fixed McCoy with a hard stare. "I've got confidence in you, McCoy. Don't disappoint me."

"It's my job to make you well and I'm good at my job. That's the only guarantee I'm giving."


	18. Career Advice

Authors Notes: Below are few definitions of medical terms that may help you understand this section. I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, so please don't beat me up re accuracy or brevity of what's below. It's included so that you can follow the jargon; I'm not trying to teach a med school course here.

ID – Infectious Disease (can refer to the department or doctor)

WBC – White Blood Cell – increase in WBC count is a sign of infection

ALT, AST – liver enzymes – increase indicates liver problems

TB – total bilirubin – it's the yellow in jaundice and an increase can indicate infection (TB is also short for tuberculosis, of course, but not here)

Transanimase – an enzyme – increase can indicate liver infection

Hepatocellular damage – damage to liver cells often caused by hepatitis

____________

"Patient is a forty-seven-year-old human male who presented six days ago with bloody diarrhea that was non-responsive to Chlorporazine. Initial physical exam revealed diffuse abdominal tenderness and a rash consistent with Maloxian parasitic infestation . . . ."

Pike listened with a trace of detached amusement as McCoy continued his recitation for the group of residents clustered around his bed.

"ID consult confirmed the diagnosis. Treatment with Betamyazine was initiated. After two days, WBC, ALT, AST and TB were elevated and patient experienced nausea and dehydration. A subsequent workup revealed bacterial hepatitis of unknown origin. A course of Eustiloid B was added, fluid therapy initiated and, within forty-eight hours, patient began responding to the treatment. Nonetheless, liver enzymes remain elevated and liver scans reveal hepatocellular damage."

"Dr. Robbins," McCoy turned to one of the residents, "how would you evaluate the effectiveness of the treatment for the parasitic infection?"

The young man did not look happy to be on the spot. "Uh, resolution of the rash."

"Is that a guess?" McCoy snapped.

"Uh, I . . . yes."

Pike watched McCoy take a deep breath, a really deep breath.

"Robbins, we don't guess when treating patients. In fact, the rash is likely to spread upon successful initial treatment." He gave Pike an apologetic look. "Captain, may I?"

Pike nodded. Oh the joys of being a patient in a teaching hospital. He might – just might – have avoided the attention but for the fact that he'd been unlucky enough to contract a really unusual disease which every med student and resident wanted, and – speaking as head of training – needed, to see.

McCoy drew back the covers, pushed up his gown and pointed to the rash on his abdomen, which had indeed grown larger, although somewhat more faint than two days ago. The doctor had warned him this would happen – promised him that it was actually a good sign, strange as it seemed. McCoy had explained that the medication diffused the effect of the parasite. He analogized it to a bug bite in which the immediate effect was a small, concentrated wheal that, over time expanded in size even as it lessened in severity until it eventually disappeared. The same, McCoy assured him, would happen with the rash.

McCoy called on another resident who also didn't know how to determine if the treatment was effective. Exasperated, McCoy finally provided the answer himself – something about an increase in transaminase and iron content and a bunch of medical terms and numbers Pike didn't even try to decipher.

"Okay, Williams, why choose Eustiloid B instead of Incartan or Hexapan for the hepatic infection?"

This time, a young woman was on the spot. "It doesn't interact with Betamyazine?"

"I certainly would hope not," McCoy replied indignantly. "The same is true of the other drugs. So why did I choose this one?"

She tried again. "It's less toxic to the kidneys?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?

"It's less toxic to the kidneys," she said, more forcefully this time.

Pike listened with a touch of amusement at the explanations and, from watching McCoy's increasingly irritated expression, none of them appeared correct.

"Does anyone _know_ the answer?" McCoy asked.

None of the students seemed eager to jump in.

"The purpose of rounds, ladies and gentlemen, is for you to learn. To do that, you need to prepare. Captain Pike has been here for nearly a week, which is more than enough time for all of you to have read up on his case and yet none of you seems to have any inkling about his condition or treatment. On tomorrow's rounds, someone had best have an answer – and the right one – or you will not like the consequences."

Finished, McCoy sent the residents to the room of the next victim – uh, patient – while he stayed behind. The minute they were gone, McCoy raised his eyes skyward. "I don't know where they find these kids. Bunch of idiots, if you ask me."

Pike slowly shook his head. "I doubt that, Doctor." He stared pointedly at the insignia that indicated McCoy was still a cadet. "They're learning, just like the cadets at the Academy are learning."

McCoy leaned against the bedside table, crossing his arms. "They're responsible for people's lives – or will be in a few short months. They've got to do better."

"And I've no doubt you'll make them do better. It's all part of leadership."

"I signed on to be a doctor, that's all."

"You signed on to be a Starfleet surgeon."

"And that's what I'm doing." McCoy stepped forward and raised the head of his bed.

He decided to change the subject. "They tell me my condition – the Maloxian parasite thing – is something you would never have seen in Atlanta. You hadn't seen it before, had you?"

"No, your case was a first for me."

"I'm told most doctors wouldn't have picked up on the rash. Boyce didn't."

"We don't know that the rash was present when Dr. Boyce examined you."

Pike decided there was no need to mention that Boyce hadn't conducted the thorough examination that McCoy had performed. A rash could have covered Pike's body and Boyce wouldn't have known the difference. And Boyce hadn't caught the secondary infection. Given that Boyce was supposed to be his next CMO, the thought troubled him more than he cared to admit. He'd always assumed Boyce would ship out with him as CMO on the next mission; he might have to reevaluate that assumption.

"And you discovered the liver infection."

McCoy ignored the compliment. "We're still trying to figure out how you came into contact with the parasite. The infectious disease experts think it may have been the reception for the UFP President last month. They believe that one of the visiting dignitaries may have been infected and that you contracted the disease when—"

"He or she sneezed, coughed or shook my hand."

McCoy's eyes smiled. "So you were paying attention that first night."

"Speaking of that night, you never answered my question. What's an experienced surgeon like you doing as a Starfleet cadet?"

"I'm sure by now you've reviewed my personnel file," McCoy replied drily. "So you already have a pretty good idea about the answer to your question."

Pike waived a hand dismissively. "You're divorced. Lots of men get divorced. They get new hovercrafts, new girlfriends, new wives. They don't join Starfleet as first-year cadets."

The doctor's body posture had changed. His shoulders were now hunched in what was almost a defense position. "I'd rather not discuss it, sir."

"Don't 'sir' me, McCoy. Doesn't suit you. Look, if it makes it any easier, I'm not asking as Captain Pike or as the Chief of Training for Starfleet Academy. I'm asking as the guy who let you strip him naked, stick things in all parts of his anatomy, and use him as a guinea pig for every intern and resident in this place."

Finally, he was rewarded with the smallest grin as McCoy pulled up a bedside chair and dropped into it. "All three come with the job description."

"Touché, Doctor. Still, there must be days when you wonder what the hell you're doing in a class with kids ten years your junior."

"There are days when I wonder what the hell I'm doing in Starfleet."

This time it was Pike who raised his eyebrows. "But you _are_ here and I'm still curious as to why. I've checked you out, McCoy. They tell me your skills are first-rate. So, why does a surgeon who could probably be the head of a department at any hospital in this country subject himself to" – he waived his hand – "this? Starting again at the bottom, taking orders from officers younger and less experienced than you – at least in the field."

McCoy paused for a minute, eyes wandering to the monitors over the bed, seemingly satisfied with whatever they revealed. "You already know why I left Atlanta. As for why I chose Starfleet, I wish I had an easy answer for you," he said evenly. "I guess at some level, it's the challenge. New species, new diseases, operating – literally and figuratively – on my own in the middle of nowhere, as you yourself said."

Interesting and probably true. But Pike suspected it still wasn't the entire story. "And?"

"These folks are willing to risk their lives gallivanting around the universe. It's crazy and dangerous but, if they're going to do it, the least they deserve is the best medical care when something goes wrong."

Pike raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a manner that suggested he didn't quite believe the response. "Patriotism? I'm not sure it's a term I would have associated with you."

McCoy sighed. "I'd call it loyalty. I've always been loyal to my patients; for now, those patients happen to be Starfleet personnel."

Pike was pretty sure he hadn't been given the entire story – there had to be more to McCoy's reasoning than the man would admit. And Pike didn't think he'd be able to pry it out of the doctor, at least not in this sitting. Still, there was something McCoy had said that was nagging him badly. He decided to test a theory. "Speaking of Starfleet personnel, you said you were on the transport from Iowa last year. Did you by chance meet up with another new cadet on that transport named Jim Kirk?"

McCoy shot him a sharp look. "We've crossed paths a few times."

A safe answer and one that Pike suspected was incomplete. "So you do know him."

"Yes, Captain, I know him. We were in the same self-defense class."

"What's your view of him?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

McCoy had suddenly turned wary and protective. "You know I recruited him to come here."

"He's mentioned it."

"I feel responsible for him so I try to keep track of how he's doing. What I don't know is whether I did the right thing in encouraging him to enlist in Starfleet."

Some of the tension seemed to leave McCoy's face. "From what I've seen, this is the right place for him."

"Do you know his history? Who his father is?"

"I know it's not something Jim likes to talk about."

To know that, McCoy had to have more than a passing acquaintance with Kirk. Time to push him a bit further. "He's your friend, isn't he?"

McCoy's eyes remained dark even as his postured stiffened. "Is there a reason he shouldn't be?"

"Of course not," Pike responded with a touch of annoyance. "Don't misunderstand me, I want Jim Kirk to succeed here, personally and professionally."

It sounded as if Kirk had indeed made a friend in this Dr. McCoy. Pike had to admit that, from the outside, it seemed an odd combination. An older, irascible, brilliant surgeon from a major city becomes friends with a younger, impetuous, smart but undisciplined kid from the Iowa farmland. How in the hell had that happened?

"Jim's been here for nearly two years," McCoy replied, "and he's well on his way to graduating in three. As far as I'm concerned, that's success."

"True, but you also must know that the hardest parts are still to come: the _Kobayashi Maru_, mock POW camp, commanding his own landing party. True tests of leadership."

"I think you'll find he's up to it."

Interesting. Apparently, McCoy had also seen special qualities in Jim Kirk, and Pike had come to realize that McCoy was no one's fool. Pike typically didn't get involved with the medical cadets but McCoy had definitely piqued his interest.

"So when you graduate, McCoy, what are you going to choose as your first assignment?"

An eyebrow shot up. "That presupposes I have a choice in the matter."

"You're at the top of your class, Doctor, I've checked. You'll have your choice of assignments."

McCoy shrugged. "I'm a surgeon. The best use of my skills is at a starbase that specializes in surgery. Seventeen, probably, or maybe Starbase Four."

Pike's eyes widened in surprise. "That's the same work you'd do in Atlanta or anywhere else. Why join Starfleet if that's all you want to do?"

McCoy bristled at the comment. "All I want to do? Surgery _is_ what I do and Starbase 17 gets the most challenging surgical cases in the fleet."

"My apologies, Doctor. Believe me, I know firsthand the importance of having first-rate medical personnel at key starbases. But any surgeon coming directly from the civilian world could do that job. You're spending three years going through the full Academy course. Certainly there's a better use of your talents."

"Such as?" McCoy challenged.

"Have you considered serving on a starship?"

"A starship is filled with 500 of the healthiest people in the universe." McCoy's voice was dismissive. "With all due respect, Captain, I don't think it would tax my skills."

"That's where we'll have to disagree. Those 500 healthy people can be thrown into battle at a moment's notice. One blast of a phaser weapon can leave a hundred of them injured in an instant. And with only two or three medics aboard, that _will_ tax your skills, Doctor. I guarantee it."

"And the rest of the time? I have better things to do than spend my days treating separation anxiety, stress fractures, and the common cold."

"There'll be away missions to more places than you can imagine. New species, new diseases . . ." Pike couldn't contain the excitement in his voice. Maybe he'd spent too long as a recruiter.

McCoy smiled in amusement. "Captain, I've no doubt there are challenges on a starship. I'm just not sure it's where I belong."

And Pike was equally certain that was exactly where McCoy belonged. There would be some issues, he realized. McCoy had a stubborn streak and probably would chafe under the regimented lifestyle that permeated most starships. Still, that rebellious nature could also be put to good use, if McCoy could channel it. He'd give a starship commanding officer exactly what was needed in a CMO – first-rate medical care and a no-nonsense attitude that would force the CO to examine his command decisions carefully. Somehow, he had to make McCoy understand where his true value lay.

"McCoy, I've seen my share of ship's doctors. You're CMO material. It'll take some seasoning, working under an experienced CMO for a few years. But I guarantee you that it won't be long before you're running your own medical bay."

McCoy pulled himself out of the chair. "I'll think about it, Captain. For now, I'm content to be your physician, which means that, until I discharge you, you're my patient."

"So when do I get out of here?"

The doctor shook his head. "I'm still not satisfied with the condition of your liver. The infection hasn't completely resolved and my best option at this point is to give you stronger medication. The downside is that it wreaks havoc on your kidneys and intestinal tract. Depending on the extent of the damage, I may still have to correct it surgically."

"That sounds ominous."

"I'm confident you'll to make a full recovery, Captain. It's just going to take a while and the road along the way may be a bit rocky."

"Another couple of days in here and I'll go nuts. Hell, I'm already going nuts."

"Once you finish this new course of therapy, I should be able to release you. Even then, you're looking at another couple of weeks at home and on light duty. Your body's taken quite a beating; it's going to take time to get back to full strength and only so much I can do to speed up the process."

"All right, Doctor. I guess there's not much either of us can do about my situation. But I don't have to like it."

"Believe it or not, I don't like it either. I'd much rather have you out of here. In the meantime, though, you need to get as much rest as possible, starting right now. Can you rest on your own or would it help if I gave you a mild sedative?"

Pike couldn't repress a grimace. "I'm not that tired, so if you really want me to get some sleep, I'll probably need the drugs."

"I'll have the nurse bring you something."

"All right, Doctor, I'll let you order me around for a few more days. Just don't get used to it."

McCoy paused at the door. "I'd never dream of it, Captain."

Of course not, Pike told himself, repressing a smile. From what he'd seen, he had little doubt that Dr. McCoy would make a career out of challenging his superior officers. Which, he decided as he rested his head onto the pillow, might not be altogether a bad thing.


	19. Going Home

_Year 2 – Kirk_

"Are you going to stay?" Jim asked the woman lying next to him in bed.

Soft green eyes stared back at him, long blonde hair spilled across his pillow. It was tough, the two of them wedged onto a single bed. Jim's roommate was away on a training mission, leaving him alone in the dorm for a couple of nights. He'd taken advantage of the opportunity.

She stroked the side of his face. "Of course I'm going to stay." She smiled, displaying a row of perfectly aligned white teeth. "I'll stay all night, if you want me to."

"And then?"

"And then whatever you want." She nuzzled closer. "I love you, Jim."

Shit. Jim couldn't prevent a frown from creasing his face. Did she really mean what she'd said about love? He wasn't ready for anything more than a one-night stand – well, maybe a couple of nights if she was really special – and made sure to ditch those who might want something more. He pulled back a little from her. "You don't even know me."

"I know that you're sexy and fun and have a great body. What more is there?"

Hmm. That didn't sound like the beginning of a long-term commitment. He relaxed a bit. "Sounds good enough to me," he said, pulling her close and pressing his mouth against hers. It had been too many nights – okay, maybe only five – since he'd done this. Best not to fall out of practice.

"What's that?" she asked, suddenly jerking away.

"What's what?" He pulled her back and nuzzled into her neck.

"The buzzer. I think someone's at the door."

At this hour of the night, it was probably a drunken cadet at the wrong room. "They'll go away." His hands ran along her skin, soft and supple. Perfect.

The buzzer continued. "They're not going away."

Another kiss cut off her conversation. "They will if we ignore them."

After a brief moment of silence, there was repeated buzzing, on and off as if the person on the other side knew Jim was home and was hell bent on making him come to the door.

"Dammit." It was nearly midnight. Who in the world would be at his door at this hour, let alone demanding entry with such persistence? He climbed out of bed, grabbed his pants from where he'd left them in the frantic dash to the bed, and pulled them on. "I'm coming," he called, even though the person outside couldn't hear. Seconds later, he was at his door, running hands though his mussed hair.

He checked the camera for the identity of his late-night visitor. Bones. What the hell was he doing here at this hour? That thought caused the slightest dip in the pit of his stomach. He opened the door.

Bones stood on the threshold taking in his appearance with a single glance. "Someone with you?"

"Uh, yeah," he responded with more annoyance than guilt at Bones interrupting a perfectly good evening.

"Send her home."

"Bones—" For the first time, he noted Bones was fully dressed, not in the sweats he usually wore during his off hours – and wasn't smiling.

"Jim," the voice was almost gentle and Jim couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Bones sound like that. "Send her home."

"What is it?"

"After you send her home."

Oh shit. Something had happened – a panoply of possible scenarios crossed his mind. Had McCoy decided to quit Starfleet? Had Jim done something stupid that was going to get him kicked out of the Academy? Had a friend been injured? He stumbled back into the bedroom, where his girlfriend of the night, probably sensing something amiss, was already half dressed. "You need to go. Sorry."

"Is something wrong?" she asked, hastily pulling a sweater over her head.

He reached for his shirt. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably."

"Okay." She hurriedly finished dressing, grabbed her bag and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Call me."

"Yeah. All right."

Jim led her to the door and McCoy didn't so much as glance in her direction as she scurried past him, closing the door behind her.

"Sit down," McCoy said softly, nodding toward the sofa.

Jim held his ground; he wasn't going to sit anywhere until he understood what the hell was going on, what had brought McCoy to his dorm at this hour. "Why are you here? Why are you at my door at midnight telling me to sit down?"

McCoy seemed to take a deep breath. "It's your mom."

The pit in his stomach had grown to the size of basketball. "She's dead," he said dully, already steeling himself for the worst.

Bones moved forward, forcing him to back into a seating position on his sofa, then knelt down next to him. "No, she's not dead. She's in the hospital in Sioux City. She had a CVA – a stroke."

Alive, not dead. He was able to breathe again as his stomach unclenched a tiny bit. Stroke. Shit. "How bad?"

"I don't know; they didn't give much information."

"Who called you?"

Bones gave a slight shake of his head. "The hospital called the Academy – your mom must have listed you as her emergency contact. These calls always go to the head of training. Pike called me."

It was hard to process all of this. Why had Pike called McCoy? Jim voiced the question, realizing as he did so that it really didn't make any difference. It was as if focusing on the logistics was easier than dealing with what had actually happened.

"He knows we're friends and thought the news might be easier coming from me."

"Is she going to die?"

McCoy's eyes narrowed. "I don't know," he said quietly, his shoulders seeming to shrug involuntarily. "Pike's okayed your leave. The next transport's at 0630."

Shit. He should go, was expected to go, wanted to go – he guessed. Jim hadn't seen his mom since before he left for the Academy. It was apathy more than anything – there simply was no reason to see her. Other than the fact she was his mom, he didn't have anything to say to her. But, she was his mother and he was her son. He couldn't simply leave her alone in the hospital, sick and possibly dying. If nothing else, he owed that much to her.

"Okay, I guess I should go."

"Of course, you should go," Bones said forcefully. He glanced meaningfully around the small room. "Do you need help packing?"

Packing? Packing meant he'd be staying awhile. "Uh, no."

"Is there someone there . . . in Iowa . . . to help you? A relative, someone you can call?"

Jim shook his head. There was his brother; no way would Sam come back even if Mom was dying. Mom was an only child. There were cousins somewhere, folks he hadn't seen in years. "Nah." He sighed. "Just me. I'll be okay."

Bones gave him a look that was something between concern and pity. "Look, I could come with you, for a couple of days at least. I'm sure I can get Pike to approve it."

"I'll be okay," Jim repeated. He would be okay, he'd always been okay. Whatever happened, he'd get through this.

Bones sat back on his haunches. "I know you'll be okay, but it might be better if I came along. Strokes are complicated; at least I can talk with the doctors and translate the medical jargon for you."

Going back to Iowa, to his mother, to the memories he'd tried so hard to forget, suddenly seemed overwhelming. He wasn't sure he could handle it alone and yet was almost more afraid to let someone else into that world, let alone someone as insightful as Bones. Jim tried to project an assertiveness he didn't quite feel. "You have classes, patients. You can't—" 

"Let me handle that. If you want me to come along, I will."

Something about the way Bones said the words . . . matter of fact. He wasn't pleading, wasn't trying to interfere, he was simply volunteering to be there. It was the first time since Sam had walked out of his life more than a decade ago that someone had volunteered to be there for him and, for the first time in many years, he found himself wanting that companionship. Not to mention that having Bones' medical knowledge could come in handy. "Okay."

Bones lifted an eyebrow. "Okay what?"

Another sigh. "It's okay if you come along."

"You sure?"

Jim smiled weakly. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Bones smiled back. "Let me make a few calls."

****

Jim was quiet during the transport flight; seated next to him, Bones was equally still, obviously doing his best not to puke his guts out. To his credit, Bones hadn't bitched once about the dangers of space travel, hadn't protested when the transport operators told him to strap in, hadn't even threatened to throw up on anyone. Instead, he'd sat silently in his seat, never looking outside, taking slow, deep breaths – all of which made Jim wonder if Bones had given himself an anti-emetic, or even a sedative, before they'd left San Francisco.

When they reached the transport station, a rental hovercraft was waiting. When Bones headed for the driver's seat, Jim intercepted him. "I'll drive."

Bones stood his ground. "You're in no shape to drive."

"I'm fine and I know where I'm going. Besides, it's a hovercraft," he said, emphasizing the word 'hover,' "and you hate to fly."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I just flew on that damn transport. And I have driven hovercrafts before, you know – even owned one before I left it and my senses to join Starfleet. There's a huge difference between driving yourself less than a meter off the ground and being at the mercy of some novice transport operator hurtling through the vacuum of space at God knows what speed in a machine that probably didn't have its last maintenance check--"

When Bones got like this . . . and they were going to downtown Sioux City not the backwater that was Riverside. "Okay, you can drive."

The Iowa transport station looked the same as when he'd left it two years ago, as did the dockyard, bustling with workers arriving for their morning shift ready to build the newest and finest ships Starfleet had to offer. Even in his civilian clothes, he couldn't help but feel a part of it all . . . one day soon he would be serving on a ship, perhaps one that had been built right here.

Within seconds, they were crossing the flat fields that had once marked the boundaries of his existence. Every dozen or so kilometers, the landscape was broken with a cluster of buildings – tall ones signaling a major city such as Ames or the low-slung homes and offices of small towns.

"Is your mom still working?" Bones asked, without taking his eyes from the instrument panel.

"She's a research scientist. Works at the university and I think she still does some consulting for Starfleet."

"Research? What's her specialty?"

Jim shifted restlessly in the passenger seat. He did not want to get into an extended discussion of his mother because it would inevitably lead to . . . things he didn't want to discuss, especially not with Bones and especially not now. Still, Bones would think it odd that he didn't want to talk about his mother – after all, she was the reason they both were here. "Biochemistry. She's a biochemist."

"Is she married?"

"No."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"Couple years ago."

"Before you joined Starfleet?" There was a subtle note of incredulity in Bones' question.

"Yeah," he replied, staring purposefully out the window in the hopes of discouraging further conversation on this topic.

Bones must have taken the hint because he returned his attention to the ride. Still, Bones was stubbornly perceptive and Jim had little doubt he'd revisit this conversation at some later time.

"A stroke's bad, isn't it?" Jim finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Not always. It depends on what part of the brain is affected and the severity of the damage. Nowadays, most people recover completely."

"But some don't."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Jim. Let's wait to see how she's doing."

It was an honest answer and Jim was thankful that Bones hadn't offered false reassurance, hadn't tried to convince him that everything was fine when neither of them knew yet how things would turn out.


	20. Memories Revisited

The hospital loomed on the horizon. The sprawling steel and glass building, with its infamous teal color, was the largest and most sophisticated medical facility in the region and certainly an improvement over the woefully inadequate Riverside Memorial Hospital. Compared to the sprawling Starfleet medical facilities, however, it looked more like a rural clinic. Jim had only been here twice – once when he'd shattered his femur joyriding with a friend and once when he thought he was going to die. A broken rib had punctured a lung and suddenly he couldn't breathe. At first Frank had thought he'd been faking. It was when he'd started turning blue that Frank had rushed him to the emergency room, where they'd discovered a punctured lung. Reinflating it had hurt like hell . . .

"Jim?" Bones was outside the vehicle, eyes narrowed and a concerned expression on his face. "You coming?"

He was only twelve at the time and the doctors wondered aloud how such a young boy could be so seriously injured playing backyard football, which was how Frank had explained the injury. Once they'd fixed his pneumothorax, the medical personnel had taken him aside and asked what had really happened. He'd sworn it was just as Frank had said because he was more afraid of what would happen if he told the truth.

Again, Bones voice dragged him away from his memory. "Jim, I know it's hard, but—"

"Sorry, just thinking." He straightened his shoulders, lifted his head and, with a determined step headed for the hospital entrance.

Once inside, Bones took charge, not afraid to assert his natural authority as a surgeon used to getting his way in a medical facility. Jim was relieved when, within minutes, they were led to the neurology unit and the room of Winona Kirk.

Jim stood at the door, not sure he was ready for what was inside. Your parents were supposed to be your strength. His dad was dead. His mom had her faults, many of them, but she was still his mother. He couldn't remember his mother ever being in a hospital. Now here, it was hard to face the prospect of his mom weak, ill and hooked up to machines. He felt McCoy's presence behind him, steady yet allowing him to proceed at his own pace.

He took a tentative step into the room and let loose a deep breath. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Although she was attached to a handful of medical monitors, his mom mostly looked like someone who'd simply fallen asleep.

Jim cautiously approached the bed. The blanket was tucked up over his mom's chest and his eyes focused on her face, which looked as he remembered it – fair, unblemished and tightly drawn with perhaps a few more lines around her eyes and mouth. Everyone said Jim looked like his father and, based on the pictures he'd seen, for the most part he had to agree. Staring at his mother's face, peaceful in what was probably a drug-induced sleep, he could nevertheless see a bit of himself in the color of her hair, which she still wore long, and the soft curve of her chin.

"She's stable," Bones said softly. "From what I can tell from the monitors, she's in pretty good shape, considering."

"Mom," he said tentatively. "It's Jim." He turned away, toward Bones. "Can she hear me?"

Bones shrugged. "They have her on a lot of meds. Maybe."

"Mom, it's me, Jim." He glanced at the monitors trying to see whether there was any reaction.

"Jim, I'm going to find her doctor, see if I can get some more information on her condition."

"Okay," he said absently.

After two years at the Academy, he'd thought he'd moved beyond his messed up past. Now, standing here with his mom brought it all back. How he loved her, hated her, wanted her to be a mother who'd always put her son's welfare above all else, the way that most mothers did. Winona Kirk had never been that person.

He remembered the early years, before he'd started school. His mother had loved him as she'd loved nothing else. Maybe it was because Jim, born on the day George had died, was her tie to her husband and to her past or simply the love of a mother for her newborn child. And then, for some reason, it hadn't been enough. A part of him understood it – she'd been the widow of a hero suddenly forced to raise two boys on her own. In retrospect, it was clear she hadn't known how to deal with that and had turned to what she believed to be a strong man to take care of her and her sons. Her intentions had been good.

One day, the man Jim had known only as Frank, never as "Dad," had come into their lives and changed everything. The outcome had been a disaster, the magnitude of which Jim wasn't sure his mother understood even now.

At first, Frank had been a strict disciplinarian but also one capable of showing concern and affection, if not love. For reasons that, even now, Jim couldn't fully understand, after a few years, Frank's attitude and approach had change to the point that he'd become a tyrant, enforcing his will with threats while explaining to his mom that Jimmy and Sam "needed discipline." It wasn't long before Jimmy became Jim and Sam grew taller and stronger and the verbal abuse no longer worked.

The first time Frank had used the belt stood out vividly in his memory even as the reason for it had faded. Sam had done something or refused to do something. Banished to his bedroom, Jim had heard Frank and his brother arguing, voices escalating, words such as "bastard" and "dick" tossed around with regularity. Finally, Frank had said, "I've had enough; time to teach you a lesson you won't forget," in a tone so quiet as to strike terror in his own gut.

There were sounds of a scuffle followed by a few grunts, then something louder and more ominous. "Take that, you little bastard."

Jim had wanted to run out of the room to find out what was happening, and maybe even to put a stop to it. And yet he dared not move, frozen with the fear of what he might find and fear of Frank doing to him whatever he was doing to Sam. If Sam couldn't stop Frank, what could Jim himself do?

A few minutes later, Frank's commanding voice sounded again. "Go to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out."

Curiosity overtaking fear, Jim crept down the short hallway toward Sam's bedroom. He thought he heard a cry; it couldn't be Sam because Sam was the bravest person he knew. He cracked open the door and saw his brother turn with an expression of hatred and fear as he'd never before seen.

"Sam?" he whispered.

The expression melted instantly and Jim could have sworn there were tears in his brother's eyes. "Go away."

"Sam, are you okay?"

"Jim," Sam said in a voice that threatened to break. "I mean it. Get back to your room before he finds you here."

Jim figured that when his mom came home, Sam would tell her what happened, she'd get rid of Frank, and everything would be back to normal. It wasn't.

"You gotta tell her!" he begged his brother. Jim was never sure whether Sam didn't tell or their mom didn't believe him. By now, Sam was becoming known as a troublemaker at school and Frank's explanation that the boy needed some sense knocked into him seemed to resonate with their mother, who lacked the time, energy or desire to deal with a recalcitrant teenager.

When Sam finally walked out for good, Jim couldn't help but believe that his mom was almost relieved. If she suspected what had driven away her eldest son, she gave no sign of it and, for a time, Frank was on good behavior and unusually kind and attentive toward Jim.

That changed a few weeks later when Jim was caught skipping class at school. Frank was waiting for him at the door, alcohol on his breath and leather belt in hand. It was only the beginning.

Most of the time Frank's "discipline" took the form of a whipping or even a punch to the gut, sufficient for Frank to assert his dominance but rarely serious enough to send him to the hospital. When Frank had miscalculated, had done real harm – always when him mom was away – Jim would usually end up in the Riverside ER where Frank would lie about how "Jimmy" had been hurt and Jim went along, mostly in fear of what would happen if he didn't. They'd sent him here only for the really serious stuff.

How much had his mother known about what went on during the days and months she was away, at work, on a mission? How much had she guessed? Or had she simply closed her eyes and mind because it was easier to accept the status quo?

"Jim." He startled as a hand touched his shoulder. It was Bones. How long had he been standing here? "The nurses need to take care of her. Let's get something to eat."

Jim's gaze didn't stray from his mother's face. "I need to stay." Now that he was here and his repressed memories had been forced to the surface, it was suddenly important that he talk to his mom again, to understand what the hell had happened years ago, to let him know that he'd turned out okay, more or less.

For once, Bones seemed oblivious to his inner turmoil or, more likely, misinterpreted it as concern for his mother's welfare. "We need to let the nurses work. We can come back in a little while." Arms cupped around his shoulders. "Come on, Jim."

He allowed Bones to lead him out of the room, down the corridor, into a turbolift. "Cafeteria," Bones said and Jim didn't protest. Once there, Bones ordered lunch for him, placing food on a tray. They found a seat in the corner of the room.

"I spoke with the neurologist. I'll spare you the medical details but she expects your mom to make a full recovery."

"That's great." Jim was surprised at the sense of relief that surged through him. He and his mom hadn't been on the best of terms for years, but she was still his mother and the thought of being without her had left him more depressed than he'd believed it could.

"There's some paralysis on her right side but it should respond to the meds and physiotherapy."

Jim rubbed his eyes. "Thanks."

McCoy cracked a tight smile. "For what, kid? I haven't done anything yet."

"You're here."

His eyes smiled even as he nodded at Jim's untouched platter. "Eat your dinner."

"I should hate her, you know."

"Your mom? Why would you hate your mother?"

"If it weren't for her, there wouldn't have been Frank."

"Stepfather?"

"Bastard." Jim slammed his mouth shut. He'd already said too much, told Bones more than he should have. He shouldn't even have invited Bones to come. This place held too many skeletons and Bones was too smart and too inquisitive to let them lie.

Bones eyed him carefully, apparently willing to let the comment pass for the moment. "Jim, you need to eat. You haven't had anything since dinner last night."

"I'm not hungry."

Bones pointed toward the food on his tray. "Eat anyway. Doctor's orders."

When he'd managed to stuff enough food in his mouth to appease Bones, they returned his mother's room. To Jim's untrained eye, her condition hadn't changed, a view Bones quickly confirmed.

He slipped into a folding chair next to the bed. "When will she wake up?"

"They're keeping her asleep for now. They've given her meds that help reverse the effects of a stroke in the brain and quite frankly they work better when the patient is sedated."

"How long will she be out?"

"The rest of the day at least. Look, why don't you try to get some rest. There's nothing you can do for her right now. The doctors here seem competent enough; she's in good hands."

It was probably true or Bones wouldn't have said it. And Jim had no reason to distrust the doctors caring for his mom; hell, he'd never even met any of them before. That was the problem. He had enough trouble trusting docs he knew, and putting his mom's life in the hands of strangers wasn't easy. He turned to Bones. "I want you taking care of her."

Bones smiled. "Jim, I appreciate the compliment, but the doctors here know what they're doing. I wouldn't be doing anything differently."

"Bones, I know you, hell, I even trust you. I don't want them doing anything to her without checking with you. That's my right, isn't it?"

"Yes," Bones said slowly. "But—"

"No buts. I want you in charge of her care. Tell me what I have to sign and I'll do it."

"You're not going to endear either of us to her physicians, you know that?"

Jim shook his head stubbornly. "Don't care." And he didn't. To hell with them. Bones was the best doctor he knew and – at least until he was sure his mom was going to be okay – he wanted Bones taking care of her.

Bones sighed in resignation. "Okay. I'll get them to verify my credentials; they should be able to give me temporary privileges. While I'm doing that, how about you get some sleep? You've been up almost 36 hours."

"Can't sleep."

Bones gave a small harrumph. "Well, you certainly can't sleep standing up at your mom's bedside."

"I'll sleep when I'm sure she's okay." He didn't care if he sounded stubborn.

By the time Bones had returned, he'd settled into the chair, back slouched and legs splayed. He'd knew he'd pay for this temporarily comfortable position with one hell of a backache in the morning.

Bones slid an extra chair into the room and now dropped into it, crossing one leg over the other knee. "So tell me a bit about your mom."

Jim jerked his head around in surprise. "What?"

"Your mom." Bones nodded toward the bed. "Tell me about her."

"She's my mom. What else do you need to know?"

"You want me to be responsible for her care. It would help me to know a bit more about her."

Jim frowned, not liking where this conversation was headed. Normally, he was good at protecting his secrets. At the moment, he was dog tired and his brain frazzled. No doubt Bones was subtly taking advantage of that situation. "I'm sure you've read her chart."

"Yes, and it tells me about her medical condition. There's more to treating patients than reviewing scans and test results."

Not for most doctors that he'd known; they were content to patch up broken bones, seal cuts, and hit you with a hypo. Bones was different – he actually believed that shit about caring for the whole person. And Jim, damn him, had left the door wide open by demanding Bones take over his mom's care. Now, in return, he'd be forced to give Bones at least some insight into his past.

"What do you want to know?" he asked warily.

"You said she isn't married. Did she ever remarry after your dad was killed?"

"No."

"Then who's Frank?"

"Her boyfriend."

"Still?"

"No." Shit. Bones was a doctor and had probably taken his fair share of psych courses. He wouldn't be fazed by the monosyllabic answers and, at this rate, they'd be here all day. Perhaps if he were a tiny bit more forthcoming, he'd satisfy Bones' curiosity and end this conversation that much sooner. "She met Frank when I was three or four. He was in charge of security at the base."

"He was Starfleet?"

"Civilian. I guess she was lonely after my dad died or maybe they just hit it off, I don't know." He'd often wondered what about Frank had attracted his mom. To Jim's mind, Frank was at best average in appearance and certainly had his share of personality flaws – definitely not like his dad in any way and Jim sometimes wondered if Winona had been drawn to Frank for the very reason that he was the antithesis of George. 

"He's gone now?"

Jim dropped his head back over the chair. "She kicked him out years ago."

"Why?"

"Why does anyone break up?"

"They just stopped getting along?" Bones replied, with obvious disbelief.

Jim was caught off guard by the question and it did sound sort of silly when Bones put it that way. "Why don't you ask her when she wakes up?" he asked in a tone he hoped would put off further conversation.

Bones ignored the attempt at deflection. "So she lives alone now?"

"Far as I know."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

Jim let his impatience flair. "You already asked me that. I told you it was before I enlisted in Starfleet."

"That's a long time."

"What does any of this have to do with my mom's medical condition?"

"Recuperating from a stroke is complex. Her mental state, the outside support she has or doesn't have, and her living conditions can all impact the speed and completeness of her recovery."

Jim was sure that was all true just as he was sure that Bones had an ulterior motive for his persistent questions.

"So, is there any particular reason you haven't seen your mother in several years?"

He'd had enough. He was not going to get into a discussion of mommy issues, not here, not now and not with Bones McCoy. He pulled himself out of his chair. "Okay, Dr. Freud, enough of the psychological bullshit. I'm going for a walk."

The only reaction from Bones was the slightest upward hitch of his eyebrows. "Mind if I join you?"

Yeah, he did. He needed some time away to think on his own and to get away from Bones' questions. "Thanks, but I'd rather be alone for a while."

Bones nodded, understanding, yet clearly a little disappointed.


	21. Tough Talk

Four hours and another forced meal later, Jim again stood by his mom's bed, fingers gripping the bedrail. Bones had assured him that she was stable and would sleep through the night and then again urged him to get some rest. He didn't want to sleep and he was damn tired of Bones trying to tell him what to do. He was beginning to regret ever having let the man come with him.

"Don't you understand? As screwed up as she is, my mom's all I have left. I want to stay. I _need_ to stay."

Bones eyed him critically. "How is she 'screwed up?'" Of course, he hadn't missed the offhand comment.

Jim did his best to shrug off what would likely be the beginning of another inquisition. "The same way all moms seem screwed up to their sons, I guess."

McCoy's eyes fixed on his and apparently decided this wasn't the moment to press. "Jim, you've been up for almost two days straight. Your mom's doing well. I'll stay here tonight, just down the hall – the night staff will call me if there's any change in her condition. The best thing you can do is to get some rest so that you're fresh in the morning when she wakes up."

It made sense, of course. Let Bones and the other docs take care of her. He could simply close his eyes and relax and let sleep and dreams . . . he felt himself nodding off and jerked upright, shaking his head to clear it. No, he had to stay, had to be here for his mom the same way she should have been there for him.

"I'm staying here." Defiant and uncompromising.

Bones' body posture seemed to slump with reluctant acquiescence. "Okay, Jim. I'll see about getting you a cot."

Minutes later, he was settled into the uncomfortable anti-grav bed, covered with a light blanket, listening to the soft hum of the machines watching over his mother.

Bones touched him lightly on the forearm. "They gave me a cot in the on-call room down the hall. I'm going to get some sleep – you do the same, okay."

Great advice but sleep wouldn't come. Every time a monitor bleeped or a nurse entered the room, he was instantly alert, questioning the medical personnel, making sure nothing had changed.

The sound of a faint rustle beside him jerked him into an upright position, eyes immediately darting toward the bed.

"Jim, it's okay," Bones assured him in a whisper. "It's just me. I came to check on your mom."

"What time is it?"

"A few minutes after three." McCoy stepped closer to his mother's bed and, after a minute, returned to his side. "Vitals are stable, brain function is strong, levels of consciousness indicators are increasing. That's good news. Which means," he continued, "that you need to get some sleep. The nurses told me you've been awake all night."

"I'm afraid that if I go to sleep, something bad will happen. I know it's crazy but I can't help it."

"I know." Bones gently pushed against his shoulder. "Come on, lie back down; if you can't sleep, at least try to get some rest."

Grudgingly, Jim complied. He was tired.

"Close your eyes."

He did as told. He didn't need to see, his ears would tell him all he needed to know. Suddenly, there was the unpleasant but all too familiar pressure of a hypo against his neck, and even as he tried to pull away, strong hands easily resisted his struggle.

"Sshh. It's just a little something to help you rest."

"Damn you, Bones. I told you . . . I needed . . . I need . . . stay . . . wake . . . ." Jim could and would fight nearly everything and charm everything else – except Bones' goddamn hypo. The last thing he remembered was Bones pulling the blanket up to his chin.

*****

Six hours of enforced sleep later, Jim was still bitching at Bones for the sleight of hand and hypo that had knocked him out.

"Goddammit, Bones, you had no right to dope me up."

"Keep your voice down," Bones growled. "We're in a hospital. Patients are trying to sleep."

"My voice wouldn't be up if you hadn't slipped me the hypo."

"Jim, you'd been awake for nearly 48 hours." Bones remained maddeningly calm. "You weren't doing yourself or your mom any good."

"It wasn't your decision."

"You weren't in any state to make decisions, at least not rational ones."

"I'm not a child."

"Of course you're not. But you were beyond tired, under a tremendous amount of stress, and not willing or able to rest on your own. Your body craved the sleep; I only helped you along."

"You can't just hypo me whenever you feel like it." Yeah, he was pissed and he knew that Bones would expect a certain level of argument and protest. But down deep, Jim knew the sleep had done him good.

"Well, I did. And given your feistiness this morning, I can see it was the right decision." Bones couldn't resist a slight smirk.

"You still should have asked me first."

"And you would have refused and then where would we be?"

"At least it would have been my decision. I don't need you or anyone else deciding what's best for me."

Bones nodded at his still-sleeping mom. "Is that what she did?"

Jim couldn't stop the hiss of disdain that came out of his mouth. "_That_ wasn't her problem."

"So what was her problem?"

Would Bones never quit? "She wasn't around much when I was growing up." It seemed a relatively safe answer.

"Who took care of you when she was gone?"

"At first, friends or neighbors, sometimes a sitter." It was hard to remember them – today they were simply a blur of faces that passed through his life, making it no better or worse for their time in it. At the time, he'd resented them because they weren't his mom and resented his mom for leaving him in their care.

"And later?"

Later, he would have done anything to have them back. They were distant but kind, dispassionate but thoughtful, unloving but caring – a solid bridge between his mother's increasingly abbreviated trips home.

"Was it Frank?" Bones prompted. "Did he take care of you when your mom was away?"

Of course Bones would figure it out. The man wasn't an idiot. And that meant that Bones would probably figure out the rest of it, the whole damn thing. He couldn't meet Bones' eyes. "Yeah."

*****

Shortly after they'd returned from breakfast, Bones' voice sounded from the chair on the other side of his mom's bed. "Jim, she's waking up."

He jumped out of his chair, his warm hands instinctively clasping her cold one. "Mom, can you hear me? It's Jim." Over and over he repeated the words, willing her eyes to open, to recognize him. It was more nerve-racking than he'd expected, realizing his mother was only moments from being conscious. Would she be happy to see him?

A nurse entered the room, followed by a doctor. Jim tried to stay out of the way as the medical professionals analyzed his mother as if she were a prized piece of art. The neurologist, who introduced herself as Dr. Kyoto, injected a hypo.

"Keep talking to her," the doctor encouraged.

After a minute, Jim thought he saw his mom's eyelids flicker. "Mom?"

Eyes blinked open, darted around in what Jim took to be terror. She opened her mouth, tried to talk but only incomprehensive garble emerged. She struggled to move and, when she discovered that the right side of her body wouldn't comply, it only increased her panic. Soon, she was thrashing and trying to talk and becoming more terrified by the moment. The neurologist administered a couple of hypos in succession and, almost instantaneously his mother started to relax. At first, Jim thought the doctors had once again knocked her out. Thus, he was surprised when she opened her eyes and focused on him.

"Jim?" Although only the left side of his mother's face and mouth moved, her speech sounded almost normal. From what Bones had told him earlier, the fact that he could understand her was due more to medication than actual improvement.

"Yes, it's Jim."

Her brows knitted in apparent confusion. "Why are you here?"

Jim couldn't decide whether she was happy to see him. "You're sick, mom. They called me."

"Sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Winona." The female doctor spoke from across the bed. "I'm Dr. Kyoto; I'm a neurologist. Yesterday morning you experienced a stroke. That's what's causing you to have trouble speaking and moving. The tests we've done indicate it's not permanent and we expect you to make a full recovery. You're going to be able to speak and move just like before. Do you understand?" 

A nod.

"It may be a bit hard for a couple of days, until the medications start taking hold. Try to be patient. I promise you it will get better and the more you relax and let the meds work, the quicker it will happen. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me or any of the staff here, okay?"

"Okay."

The doctor motioned Jim away from the bed. "I'm not sure how much she understands right now. We'll run some more tests today. In the meantime, try to reassure her that she's going to be fine. What I told her is true – the more she can relax, the more effective the medications will be."

After the doctor left, Jim pulled his chair closer to the bed. Bones, after warning Jim not to overtire her, took his leave, saying something about checking in with the Academy.

"Mom, did you hear the doctor? You're going to be fine."

"Why come?"

"Why'd I come? You're my mother."

"Oh, Jim." A tear slipped from her eye.

There was a sudden ache in the pit of his stomach. It had been a long time since he'd seen his mother cry – he remembered once when he was five walking into her bedroom and finding her in tears. He hadn't understood, and worried something he'd done had made her unhappy. She'd pulled him into her arms and assured him it wasn't his fault. Still, je often wondered whether every time she looked at him she was reminded of the day her husband died.

Mindful of what the doctors had said, he tried to reassure her. "It's okay, mom. I'm here and you're doing good."

She shook her head. "Not good. Not a good mom."

Jim was at a loss for words. Was she upset that her illness had forced him to return home or did she mean something deeper – was she trying to apologize for all that had gone wrong over the years? Or were her words merely those of a confused stroke victim who'd awakened to find a son she hadn't seen in years standing at her bedside?

Any shrink would tell him that by coming back he'd taken the first step toward reconciliation, if not outright forgiveness. But that didn't mean he was ready suddenly to pretend that nothing had happened and that everything was right between them, at least not without understanding why she'd done what she'd done.

"You're still my mom." It was a carefully neutral response.

"Want to be."

Damn. It was hard to reconcile the part of him that had long harbored anger toward her with the helpless woman lying in front of him who seemed, for the first time in a long time, to be trying to make amends.

"You are. I know things haven't always been great between us. Maybe we can talk about it when you're better."

"Talk now." The words were slightly slurred and it was clear his mom was tiring.

"I don't think so," Bones said, appearing almost magically across the bed from Jim and carefully studying the medical monitors. "Mrs. Kirk, I'm Dr. McCoy, a friend of Jim's who's been helping take care of you. You've had enough activity for the time being. Jim will be here when you wake up."

For once, Jim was grateful for the sight of Bones' hypo. His mom needed the rest and he needed the time to figure out what the hell he was going to say to her when she woke up.

****

Bones had insisted that they get away from the hospital for a few hours and so they found themselves at a local restaurant that specialized in burgers, chicken, and ribs, complete with potatoes served every which way. Bones ordered a burger and fries from a bored waiter; Jim, who was not particularly hungry but knew he'd get shit from Bones if he didn't eat something, did the same.

"Does my mom know what she's saying?" Jim asked. "I mean, how much is the stroke affecting her?"

Jim saw a flicker of something in Bones' eyes that made him suspect Bones understood the thought process underlying the question. "The CVA affects her ability to process speech," he replied, "meaning she's not always able to find the right words to express herself. And, of course, the paralysis makes it difficult for her to enunciate – without the medications, you'd have a hard time understanding her." He paused while the waiter delivered their drinks – a beer for Jim and coffee for Bones. "Now that she's awake, we'll be able to run additional tests to determine the level of impairment."

"So when she says she's sorry, she may not mean it?"

"I can't answer that, Jim." Bones twirled the stir in his coffee. "I don't mean that she's lying – she's sorry about something. What I can't say is how much she's remembering and understanding, whether she's simply apologizing for being sick and dragging you here or . . . something more. I can tell you that every day she'll get better, physically and mentally."

"How long until she recovers?"

"That depends on how well the drugs work and how hard she works at the therapy. Several weeks at least, maybe months."

Minutes later, the server pushed plates of food in front of them. "Need anything else?" he asked without enthusiasm and left quickly when both men shook their heads.

"I used to come here as a kid, you know," Jim said, smiling at the memory. "It was a treat. They have this humongous dessert – chocolate cake and ice cream and chocolate sauce – I could never eat it all but sure had a blast trying." Jim stuffed several French fries into his mouth. "Mom used to bring me here before a deployment. She'd let me order the dessert and then break it to me that she was leaving again."

"It must have been bittersweet."

Jim shrugged. "It was what it was. I'm not the only kid whose parent went away for a while."

"And when your mom left?"

He understood where Bones was headed and was not going there. "She left," he replied simply, suddenly terribly interested in rearranging the fries on his plate.

"And left you with Frank?"

Jim forced himself not to react even as his eyes flicked upward. "Leave it alone." He was proud of himself for keeping his voice under control.

Bone's eyes bored into his. "Is that what your mother was apologizing for today?"

Shit, so Bones had heard part of his mom's conversation and had obviously put two and two together. Jim glanced at his chronometer. "Shouldn't we be getting back?"

"Jim, I can see there's something going on between you and your mom. I'm not sure what it is but my guess is that it involves Frank and has been festering for a long time. Ignoring me won't make the issues go away."

"Right now, the only _issue_ I want to deal with is my mom's health."

"The situation with your mom could very well impact her health. As her doctor, it's important for me to know what's going on."

"Then maybe you don't need to be her doctor." This time Jim couldn't repress the anger that crept into his tone.

"That's certainly your choice."

Jim slammed his hand onto the table, hard enough to cause the fork to jump a few millimeters. "Dammit, Bones. I don't want to talk about this." He motioned to the waiter to bring their check. He'd eaten enough and, at the moment, he didn't care whether Bones was finished or not.

"All right, have it your way. Your mom's reacting well to the meds and I expect they'll start her on PT in the morning. She's out of danger so you don't need me here any more."

"Are you saying you're leaving?" Obviously, Bones couldn't stay here forever, and Jim knew he had no right to expect him to, especially now that his mother was over the immediate medical crisis. And, as long as Bones remained here, he'd continue to press Jim about his past, about the relationship with his mother and Frank, about what had happened years ago. Bones had already figured out quite a bit and had shown that he wasn't going to ignore what he was learning. The last thing he needed was Bones poking and prying into his personal life. All in all, it was probably best that Bones went back to San Francisco so that Jim could sort this out in his own mind and, with some luck, with his mom.

Still, Jim couldn't escape the feeling that he was the one driving Bones away, pushing away the first person in years that he might be able to call "friend." If he'd only had a normal childhood, the things that most kids took for granted like two normal parents who helped you with your homework and went to your football games and taught you to drive and consoled you when your girlfriend ditched you . . . Dammit all, even now, years later, it was making a mess of his life.

McCoy's eyebrows pressed together. "There's nothing more I can do for your mom that isn't already being done and I've got my own patients waiting for me." He stood up from the table. "I'll get a seat on tomorrow morning's transport."


	22. An Unpleasant Encounter

Year 2 – Kirk (continued)

They were only a few meters away from his mother's room when Jim heard it.

"You're looking good, angel." It was the booming voice of a man who seemed to be trying to talk softly and failing miserably.

And it stopped Jim in his tracks. He paused mid-stride in the hallway, listening, trying to decide if the sound was what he'd first thought it was.

The man was speaking again. "I know it's confusing right now, but you're going to get better." The words were followed by a muffled response that sounded like his mother's voice. Jim's blood turned cold and his hands clenched into tight fists.

"Jim?" Bones, already several steps ahead of him, had also come to a stop and had turned back, staring at him curiously. "What's wrong?"

"It's him," Jim replied tightly.

Bones tilted in head in confusion. "Who?"

"Frank. I swear to God, the man in there talking to my mother is Frank."

Ignoring Bones, Jim raced into the room determined to see for himself if it was true, that Frank had somehow come back into their lives.

He came to a halt just inside the doorway. Next to his mom's bed stood a man who, although older than he remembered, had to be Frank. He was still a large man, more oversized than overweight, dressed in the clothes he'd so often worn in the years Jim had known him – blue jeans, a short-sleeved shirt that seemed too snug for his huge biceps, and the omnipresent thick leather belt. The hair was now mostly gray, touching the top of his ears and dangling over the top edge of his shirt collar.

In two strides, Jim reached the bed, hand on the man's shoulder, turning him, seeing the face he never wanted anywhere near his mother. . . or him. Frank hadn't changed much in the years since Jim had last set eyes on him. The round face reminded him of a chipmunk, with full cheeks and protruding forehead. The nose and had the red tinge from broken capillaries typically associated with excessive consumption of alcohol. He still had the stupid mustache, now also streaked with white and grey whiskers.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jim gazed into Frank's eyes, expecting to see them blazing and was somewhat unsettled to find them appraising him.

Frank shrugged off his hand. "Don't touch me and don't you dare talk like that." The tone was more authoritative than angry. "I'm visiting Winona," he added with a sense of entitlement.

Jim dropped his hand but moved closer until he was only centimeters from Frank's face. "Get out!" he said firmly. "Get the hell out of my mother's room. Get the hell out of this hospital."

"Now, Jimmy," Frank replied in a tone that dripped with condescension. "Stop acting like a spoiled brat. Your mom wants me here, don't you, Winona."

Jim fixed Frank with an evil stare. A quick glance down at his mom showed a face filled with confusion mixed with a little fear. Jim wasn't sure whether she was afraid of Frank or afraid of what might happen between the two men. "She doesn't want you here," Jim continued, doing his best to control the fury in his voice while still making his point clear, "and I don't want you here. So, get out."

Frank held his ground. "I have as much right to be here as you do."

"You have no right to anything."

"Jim?" Winona's voice from the bed was weak. "Please."

"See," Frank said, "you're upsetting her. Maybe you're the one who should get out."

Jim looked more closely at his mother, trying to understand how she could tolerate Frank being here. After all, she was the one who'd thrown him out of the house nearly eight years ago when she'd caught him emptying her bank account. By the time Frank left, Sam was long gone and Jim was little more than a local troublemaker, well known for all the wrong reasons to both school officials and local law enforcement. Winona had managed to get rid of Frank but hadn't been able to do much to reform Jim or repair her relationship with her younger son.

As far as Jim knew, she hadn't seen Frank since that day. So why the hell hadn't she kicked him out of this room? Maybe the stroke was affecting her judgment – or her willingness to engage the man.

"Mom," he said, striving for a calm and patience he definitely didn't feel, "tell him to leave."

Winona's eyes flicked between the men. "I . . . he's visiting."

Jim was furious, both because Frank was here and because his mother couldn't seem to understand that he shouldn't be here. It wasn't her fault, he realized; the stroke had obviously clouded her judgment and probably her memories as well. That still didn't make the situation any better. "He has no right to visit you," he said in a voice louder than he intended.

"Jim, please don't yell."

"Yeah, Jimmy," Frank taunted, "why are you yelling at me?"

"Because you're an asshole, you've always been an asshole—"

"Jim, Frank." Winona struggled to get the words out, tried to sit up. An alarm sounded from the monitors.

"Gentlemen." Bones' steady voice sounded from behind him. "Let's take this outside."

Jim heard the tinge of concern in Bones' voice. When he turned around, Bones favored him with an expression that said this wasn't the time or place to have this discussion and the disapproving physician's gaze that made clear the argument wasn't having a good effect on his patient.

On the bed, his mom was struggling, shaking, eyes wide with what looked to be terror.

Jim was startled at the sudden and obvious change in her condition. "Bones, what's wrong? What's happening?"

Rather than answering, Bones focused his attention on his mom, pushing his way forward. "Mrs. Kirk," he said in a reassuring yet authoritative voice, "I need you to calm down." He pressed a button on the side of the bed and almost simultaneously reached for a scanner.

Frank seemed to notice him for the first time. "Who the fuck are you? Get away from her."

Bones turned and pitched his voice so that only the two men could hear. "I'm a doctor. I'm also the guy who's going to help Jim drag your sorry ass out of this room if you don't leave on your own." Although the words were delivered softly, the threat was unmistakable.

Before Jim could respond, there was a cry from the bed.

"My head!" His mom squinted and pressed both left against her ear, frantic when the right side of her body again refused to move. She started to thrash, an incomprehensible stream of words spilling out of her mouth, accompanied by a puddle of drool that dribbled out of her lips.

Shit . . . what was happening? Jim took a step towards her, wanting to say or do something to make this stop. "Mom?" He looked helplessly at Bones, whose attention was focused on his patient.

Another alarm sounded Bones abruptly pushed Jim and Frank aside and moved closer to Winona. "Sonofabitch!" he hissed, eyes glued to the monitors. He depressed the comms unit. "I need help in here, stat!" Bones turned to face them. "Get out, now. You too, Jim." Without waiting to see if they obeyed, Bones turned back to his mother, loading a hypo and pressing it to her neck.

Jim grabbed Frank by the shoulders and forcibly dragged him out of the room. Whether Frank was unable to match his strength or was cowed by McCoy's command and his mom's deteriorating conditions, in seconds Jim found himself standing across the corridor from his nemesis as they were quickly passed by medical personnel rushing toward Winona's room, medical paraphernalia in tow.

"You bastard," Jim seethed, breath coming in pants. "You want to kill her, don't you? You've already taken everything I have and now you want even that."

Frank remained maddeningly calm. "It's not about you, Jimmy. Not everything is about you. If you'd ever figured that out, you might have turned out a hell of a lot better."

Jim shook his head, torn between the worry for what was happening in his mother's room and disgust for the actions of the man standing in front of him. He found himself breathing heavily. "She doesn't need you. We don't need you."

"She does need me, she said so." He paused, as if for dramatic effect. "Besides, you're not here for her. I'm all she has."

"She's had a stroke. She's confused. And so help me, if you've made her worse . . ."

"I'd never do anything to make her worse, you sonofabitch, no matter what you think." For a brief moment, the two men glared at each other, almost waiting for the other to launch the next verbal attack. When it didn't come, Frank seemed to slump against the wall and, to Jim's surprise, the anger seemed to melt just a bit from his eyes.

"Jim, you and me, we never got along. You were a punk and I tried to knock some sense in you."

"You beat the crap out of me."

"Only because you deserved it."

Jim shook his head in a show of determination. "No one deserves what you did."

"Maybe, maybe not." Frank replied, obviously not convinced. "It's done and now you hate my guts. That doesn't mean I don't love your mother."

"You fucking stole from her." Jim didn't make an effort to hide the derision in his voice.

Frank sighed. "I was desperate. I was wrong and I paid for it in the worst way. But I always loved her and I still do. I'd never do anything to hurt her, not even to get at you."

From Jim's perspective, the only person Frank ever thought of was himself. "You think I believe that?"

"Name one time when I ever touched your mom in anger."

In fairness, he couldn't. Frank had been a bastard to Sam and to him but had never shown anything but affection to his mother, which probably explained whey she'd had such a hard time believing Frank had harmed her sons. "So it was okay to beat me up, as long as you didn't beat her?"

"What happened between you and me is long over. You're grown up now so it doesn't make any difference."

"It does to me."

"It's always about you, isn't it?"

Jim only glowered in return. They stayed like that, on opposite sides of the hallway, until one of the nurses finally asked them to move to the waiting room. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen.

"What the fuck's taking so long?" Frank asked, in a voice that held more frustration than anger.

"Bones will tell me something as soon as he can."

"Doctors are all alike. Don't tell you anything."

"Bones is different."

"Right."

Ten minutes later, it was Jim who was ready to find someone and demand answers when the Bones finally stepped into the room, seeming somewhat surprised to find both men waiting for him – or maybe he was surprised they were both still in one piece.

"She's stable," he said simply.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Frank snarled in a manner that was almost protective.

McCoy favored him with the glare Jim had come to know so well, then

stole a glance at Jim, silently asking whether he wanted Frank to hear what he had to say. At this point, Jim was too tired to start another argument and tried to communicate a mental shrug.

Bones spoke to him. "Your mom suffered another stroke. They're still assessing the damage but it doesn't look as serious as it might have been. Thankfully, I was there when it first started and was able to give her meds right away. She may spend a bit longer in rehab, but they still expect her to recover fully."

Jim swallowed hard.

"I want to see her," Frank said suddenly.

Bones turned on him, arms crossed and eyes blazing. "I don't give a flying fuck what you want. The stress she experienced from your little stunt back there likely precipitated the stroke." Bones may have been speaking to Frank, but the words were clearly directed at him as well. "The only thing that matters right now is Winona Kirk. And if you two keep acting like Neanderthals in front of her, she's gonna keep stroking out." Bones' drawl was becoming more pronounced as if often did if he was angry . . . or drunk. "And the next time we may not be able to fix the damage."

"I'm sorry," Frank mumbled and, for once, Jim actually believed he meant it.

Jim's apology was in his eyes.

Bones took a deep breath. "Look, I know there's some history here and you two aren't suddenly going to become friends. But if you don't get it sorted out in a hurry, she's the one who's gonna pay the price. And I'm betting that neither of you wants that to happen."

"Look, you hate my guts," Frank said, as much to McCoy as to him. "I get it and, frankly, I don't give a shit because, whatever you think of me, I'm good for Winona." He stared meaningfully at Jim. "She and I were doing fine until you charged into the room and got into my face."

"You hurt her. You hurt all of us. You can't just walk back into her life, into our lives as if nothing happened."

Frank seemed to shrug off the accusation. "That was a long time ago. What's between you and me is over. What's important is that I can take care of her and you can't. Now, you can be self-centered like always and refuse to admit it. But we both know it's true." Once again his tone was taunting. "Which do you care about more – rehashing crap with me or helping your mom? Oh wait, it's still all about you, isn't it?"

A quick glance at McCoy was rewarded with a slight shrug that said, _This is your decision, kid._"

It was his chance to exact revenge, to pay Frank back for all the misery he'd caused. Tell Frank to get out of his life and his mother's life and to go back to wherever he'd come from. Gone forever.

At what cost? Much as he hated to do so, he had to admit that Frank was right about one thing. He could be here to help his mother recover from her stroke, to provide physical and emotional support during the rehab that was to come. For Jim to do that meant taking a leave from Starfleet. Sure he could do it – no doubt Pike would approve it.

The problem was that he didn't want to. It would set him back weeks, probably months. Much as he loved his mom, he didn't want to make this sacrifice. For the first time in his life, things were going well and he didn't want to mess that up, not even for his her. It was selfish, he knew, and a part of him didn't care.

Frank was offering to relieve Jim of the burden that was now his mother, although at a price. Jim had no illusions that Frank was doing it for himself, either to get back into Winona's good graces or because he truly did love her.

Whatever the reason, the past hour had caused Jim to reexamine his views of Frank. He'd never forgive the bastard. But it wasn't fair to punish his mother in order to make himself feel better.

"You can stay." Jim didn't smile and neither did Frank.

*****

Jim wasn't surprised that Bones was there to meet his return transport a week later. Once Bones was convinced his mom was stable and that he and Frank wouldn't kill each other, he'd headed back to the Academy. "How's she doing?" Bones asked now.

"A lot better. She's starting to walk."

He'd never had the heart-to-heart talk with his mom that he'd dreamed of. The doctors had told him that resurrecting difficult memories could induce another setback. There would be time when she recovered, they'd promised, when she'd be strong enough to talk about the past.

Once Winona was out of immediate danger, she seemed content to focus on the present. She was pleased that Jim was doing well at Starfleet and that Pike was mentoring him. Then the discussion turned to Frank.

"_I need him, you know, sometimes."_

"_I should be here for you."_

_She shook her head violently. "No, you go back. To . . ." Again she worked to find the right word, a problem that had increased after her second stroke. "To Star—"_

"_Starfleet," he finished with a smile._

_She tried to return the smile but ended up grimacing awkwardly. "And that nice doctor?"_

"_Bones."_

"_Why Bones?"_

_Jim smiled again. "Long story."_

"_I want to hear it. Someday."_

"_You will, mom, I promise." And Jim hoped he could deliver._

_They'd talked for a while longer, he'd told her one last time that he loved her, promised he'd come home for some future holiday and walked out of the room. _

_Frank was waiting outside and nodded curtly. "For once, you did the right thing." _

"_If I find out you've hurt her, even a scratch, I'll come back here and kill you with my bare hands – after I break every goddamn bone in your body. Got it?"_

"_Can't you ever stop being a punk?" Frank snarled and entered his mom's room without another word. Jim had walked away_ _without looking back, not really knowing if he'd ever be back to Iowa or his mom._

"She's doing well," Jim repeated to Bones.

"Good." A pause. "What did you and Frank work out?"

Jim grabbed his bag. He probably owed Bones an explanation . . . payback for all he'd done . . . but he really didn't want to talk about it. No doubt Bones would suggest he see a shrink to resolve his issues, blah, blah, blah. He'd dealt with this his whole life. "He's going to help her out, stay with her until she's back on her feet."

"You okay with that?"

He shrugged. "Beats the alternatives."

"Jim, I really think it would help to talk about this with someone. There are some good folks at Academy Medical – smart and discreet."

Bones was nothing if not predictable – and insistent. "No way. I've talked to you; that's more than enough."

Bones shook his head in denial. "We've hardly scratched the surface. And besides, I'm not the right person to—"

Jim abruptly stopped and got in Bones' face. "It's over. I'm here, they're there and I don't want to talk about it anymore. Not to you and definitely not to some shrink who wants me to get in touch with my fucking feelings. Do you get it?"

Bones looked wounded. "Yeah, Jim. I get it." And walked away without another word.


	23. It Was Tough

**Author's Note: This next section of this story (which will be posted in several parts) deals with physical torture. It's not too graphic and most of it occurs off screen but there are parts that, if you're queasy about this sort of thing, may make you uncomfortable. Please proceed accordingly.**

_Year 3 – Kirk _

McCoy was halfway through morning rounds, consoling a cadet who'd managed to contract Tellarian shingles, when one of the nurses pulled him aside.

"A patient in the ER is asking for you. One of the cadets – a James Kirk."

McCoy sighed, knowing the time had come. Jim had been at Mock POW camp for about four weeks. No one would officially say how long the course lasted – that was part of the mystique – but everyone knew it was about four weeks. And everyone who completed the course was automatically sent for a medical exam via the ER.

The POW course was mandatory for all cadets in the command and security tracks and optional for science and engineering personnel. Although physicians weren't required to participate – and typically didn't do so – McCoy had a good idea of what went on there. Its purpose was to simulate the interrogation techniques Starfleet personnel could expect to face should they be captured. Put simply, the interrogators humiliated the "prisoners," gave them psychotrophic drugs, and beat them up, all to simulate at lest some of what was likely in story if they were captured. Of course, it wasn't as bad as what probably awaited the unlucky folks who ended up as real prisoners, but it was as close as Starfleet could get without inflicting serious injury on their own cadets.

The post-course medical exams McCoy had conducted supported that view. Contusions, abrasions, burns, and maybe a few broken fingers were the norm. They were all injuries that the course instructors knew would cause a world of hurt, but which the Academy docs could fix without much effort and which wouldn't cause permanent impairment.

McCoy had his own opinions about the course and they were mostly negative. Those going through it absorbed a lot of punishment that, in his view, wasn't necessary in that he wasn't sure it did much good in preparing people to be captured. And he didn't like the thought of intentionally inflicting harm on your own people, whatever the reason. However, he was merely a cadet and Starfleet clearly thought the course was sufficiently important to make it mandatory for most cadets. In fairness, the men and women he'd talked to who'd gone through it all claimed what they learned was definitely worthwhile.

All cadets were required to undergo a thorough medical exam upon completing the course to clean up the damage and ensure they weren't seriously injured. Examining physicians had to complete a comprehensive medical report that went directly to Captain Pike, Starfleet's Head of Training. The process was designed to ensure things didn't get out of hand, although McCoy still had his reservations about any process that essentially authorized torture.

The night before Jim was set to leave, he'd been almost enthusiastic about attending the camp, an emotion McCoy couldn't share.

"_Look, Bones," he'd said, laying out on his bed the few possessions cadets were allowed to take with them. "If I'm in the command track, odds are that I'll be captured somewhere along the way. I need to know what to expect and how to resist. It's important."_

_McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Sorry if I don't see how practicing being beaten to a pulp helps anything."_

"_It's more than that. Besides, it's not as if I haven't been beaten up before."_

_McCoy wondered if he was referring only to his history of altercations at local bars or something earlier and deeper. Regardless, Jim had made clear that the subject of his childhood was off limits, and trying to raise it now would only spark his anger. _

_He forced his voice to remain calm. "Jim, these guys are professionals. It's systematic__torture, not a goddamn bar fight."_

_Jim smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. There's__only so much they're allowed to do to me. Starfleet regs."_

"_From what I've seen, it's more than enough."_

"_I'll be okay."_

_Time to be supportive. __"I know you will, kid." It was also time to be realistic. Jim had an amazing tolerance for pain and also a personality that, when provoked, could be incredibly antagonistic. In McCoy's view, that combination in a Mock POW setting portended potential catastrophe. If and when that happened, he at least wanted to be there to help clean up the mess. "I want you to promise me something," he said with a sincerity that he hoped would cut through any potential resistance. _

_Jim had given him the trademark cocky grin. "Sure, Bones."_

"_When you come back from that godawful place, you let me do your medical exam."_

_Jim had frowned at that. "Bones, I don't think—"_

_He held Jim's gaze. "I don't need you to think, I need you to let me look you over."_

"_It's not quantum physics; any half-competent doctor can do it."_

_McCoy was a little surprised at Jim's reluctance given that he'd taken care of him from a medical standpoint for most of the past two years. From what he'd seen, the camp tended to expose your weaknesses and he wondered if Jim feared that McCoy might see him at his most vulnerable._

"_That's what worries me. Let me put it this way, if you go to someone else, I swear that I'll track your ass down and put you through the entire exam a second time." His tone made clear he'd do exactly that._

_Jim lifted his arms in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I'll ask for you."_

And now that time had come. Jim looked up as he entered the exam room, his eyes their normal bright blue, welcoming and yet tinged with something McCoy couldn't quite identify.

He sat on the exam table, hunched, legs dangling over the edge, wearing the loose-fitting clothing given to the prisoners. Not surprisingly, his unshaven face was covered with an assortment of lacerations and hematomas – beatings were permitted provided the instructors didn't get carried away. Facial lacs could easily be closed and bruises would fully heal in time.

For all his cynicism, McCoy couldn't quite hide the protectiveness he felt. He'd come to realize that Jim's outward toughness masked an inner uncertainty and an equal desperation to succeed. From what McCoy had been able to piece together, he suspected that Jim was still searching for the approval he'd never received from his mother, Frank or anyone else for that matter. McCoy could never atone for that. He could provide his own measure of support, but he had to be careful not to overdo it given that Jim possessed an excellent bullshit detector that easily dismissed false sincerity or unearned praise.

During his two years in Starfleet Medical, he'd examined at least twenty cadets and officers who'd gone through the Mock POW course. He'd heard more than a few stories and, from the injuries he'd treated, had a decent sense of what to expect. He was also realistic enough to know that treating the cadets after the fact was no substitute for actually going through the program. Without doing so – and McCoy had no intention of doing so – he couldn't know exactly what Jim had endured and, for that reason, he needed to proceed carefully. Start with the medical treatment, he reminded himself. Psychological care – if any was needed – could follow in time.

McCoy made sure to give Jim the scowl he'd expect under the circumstances even as he started with a quick visual examination. On the surface at least, Jim didn't look too bad. But experience told him that the most serious injuries weren't always the obvious ones.

"I asked for you," Jim said. "Happy?"

"Am I happy? Oh yeah, thrilled. After all, I don't have enough to do all day patching up cadets who _accidentally_ hurt themselves in the goddamn self-defense courses and the other craziness they make us do. No, I've got to treat injuries that Starfleet, in its infinite wisdom, _intentionally_ inflicts on its own personnel." Despite his outward show of annoyance, McCoy was secretly relieved that Jim had asked for him. He'd make damn sure he found and treated every ache and pain Jim had suffered; by now, he was immune to the kid's tendency to deny and minimize injuries. 

Jim gave him a weak smile. "Couldn't let you fall out of practice."

The unnatural way in which Jim was holding himself – as if trying to relieve pressure on certain parts of his body – suggested he was in pain. That wasn't surprising and wasn't necessarily a cause for concern. Soft tissue injuries, while painful, weren't usually serious when inflicted by folks who knew what they were doing and, from what he'd observed, the POW course instructors fell into that category.

Jim remained silent and McCoy wasn't surprised; apparently the camp had been as tough as billed. He decided to start with an open-ended question. "How was it?"

A tiny shrug. "Okay. Tough."

McCoy raised an eyebrow at that. For Jim to admit anything was tough . . . He pressed ahead. "Anything in particular you want to tell me about?"

"Nah, I'm sure your scanner thingy will tell you all you need to know," Jim said, eying the table of medical instruments with obvious resentment.

McCoy didn't miss how Jim had deflected the question even as he was pleased that his voice and attitude retained some of their normal spunk. He picked up a hand scanner. "Okay, then, let me do a quick once-over." While not a substitute for the complete exam Jim needed, it would ensure that he wasn't missing major injuries that would require immediate treatment.

The initial results were reassuring – BP, heart rate, and respiration were all within normal limits. Pain level was higher than he'd expect under the circumstances, and that was taking into account Jim's higher-than-normal tolerance. His eyes narrowed as they the adrenaline reading crossed the screen; it was also higher than it should be, as were endorphins. And Jim's breathing was shallow, as if the kid was intentionally avoiding deep breaths. The findings didn't gel with the initial tricorder readings, and he frowned involuntarily. Time to take a closer look.

He put aside the scanner and favored Jim with a firm gaze. "Need you to take those off," he said, nodding at Jim's dirty and torn clothes.

"You just want to see me naked," Jim said, keeping his hands firmly on the bed.

"And getting you beaten to a pulp is the best way to go about it," McCoy replied absently, as he waited for Jim to comply with his request. "Today would be good," he added after a moment, crossing his arms in a show of impatience.

Jim started to object then, with a forced sigh, reached for the fasteners of the top, peeling it just over his shoulders. The effort resulted in a forced hiss, which McCoy tried his best to ignore.

"I need you to take it _off_," he repeated, as Jim made little effort to obey. "Want a hand?" he added after a moment that seemed to last far too long. He managed to keep his voice casual and bland, refusing to allow even a drop of worry to creep into his tone. He was a doctor and this was his patient; he needed to keep it at that level.

Jim nodded with reluctance, allowing McCoy to cut away the top, and when Jim made no move to remove his pants, sliced through those as well. McCoy couldn't help but feel increasing concern as every movement seemed to cause more pain. He handed Jim a medical sheet and turned away to allow him a measure of privacy. When he was finished, McCoy picked up a hypo.

"What's that?" Jim asked quickly.

"Mild analgesic. You've got a mass of cuts and bruises and probably internal injuries as well. This'll make the exam a lot easier for both of us."

Jim didn't offer much protest and that alone sent shivers down McCoy's spine as he shot the contents of the hypo into Jim's neck and directed him to lie back on the exam bed. 

Jim looked nervously over his shoulder. After a moment, he said, "I'd rather sit."

Which meant he didn't want to lie down, didn't want to lie on his back . . . Without a word, McCoy moved to the other side of the bed. _Goddamn it to hell._ Only his medical training allowed him to restrain a gasp. The skin from shoulder blades to waist was covered with a crisscross of welts, some fresh and deep and others partly healed. There was barely a batch of unbroken skin.

What in the hell had they done to him? Calm down, he told himself. He'd demanded Jim let him perform this exam and blowing his stack less than five minutes into it wouldn't do either of them any good. _Get hold of yourself, McCoy_. He'd known what to expect in terms of injuries; maybe he should haven't have insisted on performing this particular exam on Jim. More than that, the kid wasn't dying and this wasn't the first friend or relative he'd ever treated. If he took Pike's advice and signed onto a starship, all of his patients would be friends and colleagues. He'd better get used to it.

"They whipped you," he said, biting down on his anger.

"That's the general idea."

Gentle fingers traced a few of the lashes that went well beyond a simple beating, feeling Jim flinch slightly at the touch. Whatever instrument had inflicted the damage was rough and likely coated with a substance that had irritated the broken skin. A scan would reveal what they'd used; he'd check that later. It had to have hurt like hell, probably still did. He blew out a long breath – the injuries would need to cleaned, disinfected and sealed one by one.

"Go ahead and lie down, Jim," he said soothingly. "It'll be okay," he added in a reassuring tone, when Jim continued to hesitate. "The analgesic should have taken hold."

He waited until Jim had settled himself on the biobed. "Did they drug you?" he asked. From what he'd observed, use of pharmaceuticals was fairly common at the camp. In many ways, drugs used for interrogation were quicker and more effective than physical torture. The tox screen didn't show evidence of drugs, but McCoy knew that many of the drugs favored by interrogators were quickly purged by the body.

"Huh?"

McCoy pursed his lips and spoke a bit louder. "I asked if they drugged you."

"They knocked me out when I was first captured." He frowned as if trying to dredge up a memory. "That's it, I think."

That merely meant that Jim didn't remember being dosed, not that it hadn't happened. From what McCoy had been told, the camp instructors had access to certain medical records of their prisoners – just enough to make sure they didn't induce a reaction they weren't prepared to handle. Given Jim's pharmaceutical profile, they'd probably erred on the side of caution. Of course, the downside of not being able to use drugs meant that they'd likely resorted to even greater physical abuse.

He started with Jim's head, carefully chronicling the injuries. Eyes were clear; no sign of concussion, thank God. Running the scanner and then practiced hands over Jim's face, he observed lacerations, a broken nose, a bruised eye socket and, not surprisingly given Jim's obvious hearing loss, a ruptured left eardrum. He suspected the last was likely the result of a few strong cuffs on the side of the head, which Jim confirmed.

Messy, painful, but all treatable without lasting damage, and generally consistent with what he'd seen from other camp veterans. He pulled on a latex glove. "Open your mouth."

"What for?" Jim asked suspiciously.

He rolled his eyes. "Need to check your teeth."

"Are you kidding?"

"Nope. Open." Running a finger along Jim's gumline, he discovered an incisor that seemed a bit loose and made a mental note to order a dental consult.

Continuing his exam, the scanner confirmed a problem with Jim's right shoulder. "Let me guess," he said dryly as he manipulated the joint, "your shoulder was dislocated and someone decided to play doctor and pop it back in."

"You might say that." Jim tried to pull away from his touch. "Hey, that hurts."

"I'm sure it does; separated shoulders usually do." McCoy shook his head. "Whoever tried to fix this should be drawn and quartered." The joint would need to be reset – not difficult once Jim had been given some heavy pain meds, but if the procedure had been done correctly in the first place . . . He made another mental note to recommend a physician be required to be present during the interrogation to make sure shit like this didn't happen.

He had a good idea of what had caused the injury. Time to see if Jim would admit to it and start describing what had happened to him. "Want to tell me what they did to cause this?"

Jim's eyes flicked to the side. "You know that's classified."

"And you know that, as a doctor, I get briefed on what goes on there. Not to mention that you're not the first person I've examined after the fact." He focused on the readings the scanner was feeding him of Jim's heart and lungs. McCoy's relief at the lack of damage paled when he saw the rib damage.

"Then you already know what goes on."

His eyes snapped around to meet Jim's. "I know that folks coming out of there don't typically have ruptured eardrums, dislocated shoulders and multiple rib fractures."

Given the location of the broken ribs and the fact that at least one was splintered, Jim was lucky it hadn't punctured a lung. He'd have to run additional tests to determine whether surgical repair would be needed and wondered if the instructors realized how dangerous this type of injury could be. "Did they give you _any_ medical attention?"

"Not exactly standard treatment for prisoners, Bones," Jim replied in a voice filled with weariness. McCoy tried to decide whether it was simply the fatigue that came from not having slept more than a few hours in the past week or something more.

"It is for _Starfleet_ prisoners," he countered angrily.

Jim's mouth formed a grim line. "I wasn't being treated as a Starfleet prisoner."

The unspoken continuation was: And Starfleet officers couldn't count on other species following the same principles in terms of prisoner treatment. McCoy softened his tone. "The rib fractures are serious; you could have developed a hemothorax." Seeing Jim's blank look, McCoy added, "that's what happens when a rib punctures your lung."

The only response was an involuntary shrug followed by a wince at the effect of the movement. McCoy was becoming increasingly worried at Jim's lack of animation – hell, his virtual lack of response to anything. It definitely wasn't like the Jim he'd come to know over the past two years.

McCoy continued his methodical examination. Circular red marks along Jim's forearms looked to be the result of burns – he grimaced at the thought of the pain they'd likely caused. Luckily, they weren't too deep and the dermal regenerators would work wonders in healing the scars. More scans and manual palpation confirmed that, despite the fact that punches to the gut were known to be favorite tactics of Starfleet interrogators, Jim's abdominal trauma was relatively minor.

The good news ended there.


	24. Mock POW continued

"They kicked you in the groin." It wasn't a question; the swelling and bruising provided all of the evidence he needed. When Jim didn't react, he added, "More than once." He waited for Jim to reply but he kept his mouth closed and gaze averted. This was another common injury among the mock POWs he'd examined in that it was painful, incapacitated the victim and yet rarely caused serious or long-term harm.

Jim shifted uneasily on the bed as he continued his evaluation. "Bones . . ." he said in a tone that made clear he wanted this part of the exam to be over.

"Easy, Jim. Almost done." After a few more seconds, he again covered Jim with the sheet. "Even with painkillers, it's going to hurt like hell for a few days, but there's no permanent damage."

Jim still didn't respond and that made McCoy nervous. "Jim, did you hear me?"

"I heard you." The dull tone wasn't like Jim at all. Something was wrong and McCoy was determined to figure it out. "Roll onto your side, I need to check your back again."

"Come on, Bones. You've been poking me for an hour."

The spunk seemed forced. "And I'll keep poking you until I'm satisfied, so roll over."

He rechecked the lacerations with the scanner, making a note of the inflammatory agent the interrogators had used, before turning his attention to a bruise on Jim's lower back. If he hadn't been angry enough before, he was now furious. The scan revealed serious kidney injury, and the bootmarks on the skin were grim evidence of the cause. He made a note on the PADD of the kidney studies he'd need to order, as well as a nephrology consult.

"Is there blood in your urine?" he asked, pretty sure of the answer.

"Yeah."

"That's because you have significant damage to your kidney and ureter. Care to tell me what caused it?"

"You're the doctor. Shouldn't you be telling me?" Jim responded sarcastically.

The kid wouldn't get away that easily. "Don't give me that shit, Jim. You want to play twenty questions with me and we'll be here all day."

"They held me down and stomped on my back, okay?" Jim's voice made it clear that he was more pissed at having to provide the explanation than the actual assault.

McCoy repressed a grimace. "Did they do that to all of the . . . prisoners?"

There was a momentary hesitation. "I . . . I'm not sure."

He seriously doubted it. This was an injury he'd never before seen from a camp veteran. "What got you the special treatment?"

"My great personality."

"Jim," he warned.

Jim didn't meet his eyes. "I don't know, okay."

"No, it's not okay. I know the rules as well as you do; they're not supposed to cause serious injury and a fractured kidney definitely qualifies as serious."

"You'll fix it."

"That's not the point."

"Drop it, Bones." He reached for the sheet. "Are you done?"

He swatted away Jim's hand and instead pushed the sheet further down. "Not yet."

Jim suddenly tensed and started to roll onto his back. McCoy placed a firm hand on his hip, holding him in place. Although the scanner had revealed no internal injuries, he knew that assault didn't always result in internal damage. "Jim, I'm going to ask you a question and I need an honest answer. Understand?"

"Whatever."

He ignored the casual response. "Were you sexually assaulted?" He shouldn't need to ask the question because mock POWs weren't supposed to be subjected to that particular form of torture – any form of sexual assault was strictly prohibited. Of course, the POWs weren't supposed to have shattered ribs, ruptured eardrums and damaged kidneys. Having already seen more injuries on Jim's body than was the norm, it was a question he couldn't ignore.

For a brief moment there was silence and McCoy, fearing the worst, allowed a torrent of epithets to roll through his mind. Finally, Jim hitched a breath. "No," he said slowly.

That seemed to square with his earlier readings. Still, McCoy wasn't convinced. The scans wouldn't show minor injury, and the catch in Jim's voice signaled that he wasn't being completely forthcoming – about something. "Jim," he said quietly yet with the natural authority of a surgeon. "I'm asking you as your doctor. I need you to be honest with me."

Another breath. "Not that. They did . . . other stuff."

McCoy released a slow breath. As much as he wanted to believe the words, he still had certain obligations as a doctor. "I need to take a look," he said softly, trying to make the request sound as casual as possible. To him as a doctor, these exams were routine. He never let himself forget that, to a patient, they were anything but.

"No." The sudden increase in tension was obvious to McCoy without consulting the above bed monitors.

"Jim." He forced his voice to be gentle, yet firm. "It's necessary."

If anything, Jim's discomfort increased. "I'm fine. Nothing happened."

"The exam's required." Seeing that seemed to have no effect on his patient, he changed tactics. "Come on, Jim. I need to be sure you're okay. It'll only take a few seconds and I promise it won't hurt. Help me out here."

"What part of 'no' didn't you understand?"

He bit down on his lip. "If you'd prefer another doctor, I'll get you one but the exam's not negotiable."

For a moment, Jim was silent as McCoy tried to decide what to do next. Finally, he heard Jim release a deep sigh, followed by, "Goddammit, Bones, just do it."

He remained silent as he concentrated on doing what was necessary as quickly as possible, all doctor now. "You're okay," he said when he'd finished, allowing the relief to come through in his voice.

There was no response, and Jim still remained deflated. McCoy was stymied. Jim's injuries, while more serious than he'd like, weren't life threatening now that he was in a proper medical facility. The fact that he'd been able to withstand this amount of punishment should be a perverse sense of pride for the Jim he'd come to know over the past two years.

He touched a hand to Jim's shoulder, signaling that he could roll onto his back. When Jim started to pull himself into a sitting position, McCoy stopped him with a firm hand to the chest. "Stay put until I work on those ribs and your shoulder."

Jim acquiesced far too quickly for McCoy's liking. Normally, Jim was protesting and halfway off the bed before McCoy had finished explaining the required treatment. He was more convinced than ever that something had happened at POW camp and that something wasn't directly related to the physical injuries he'd just catalogued. The indirect approach hadn't worked; time to try something else.

"Okay, kid. What's eating you?"

Jim eyed him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Don't give me that. You've finished one of the major milestones of the command track. That's a huge deal."

"I finished all right."

He put down the PADD and shook his head. "Jim, it's me. I've cleaned up after more of your messes than I care to count. I know you, and I know how important this damned course was to you. You finished it – after taking a hell of a lot more shit than you should have, by the way. You should be relieved, satisfied – I don't know – something. Not this. What aren't you telling me?"

Jim defiantly met his eyes. "Nothing."

McCoy recognized the bluff for what it was. "Not buying it."

"Bones, I said I'd let you take care of me. Finish up and let me out of here so I can take a long shower and get some sleep."

It was clear to him that Jim was going to continue to deny everything. To get Jim to talk about his experiences, he'd have to find another time and another approach. Given the extent of Jim's injuries, he'd definitely have the time; it was his own questioning technique he'd have to improve.

McCoy didn't even pause in making his notations. "Sorry, Jim. "I'm your doctor, not your academic instructor. It's my job to fix the mess that Starfleet has made of you, and to do that I need to keep you here for a few days. You're severely dehydrated and your electrolytes are out of whack. I need to repair your ribs and seal those lacerations, not to mention the tests on your kidney, which probably means some time in regen."

"I can't stay in the hospital. I'm due back in class. You know that this year is all about practicals. If I miss even a day, it means a makeup and those are always harder than the originals."

It was a fair point. Jim was trying to cram four years of instruction into three, which meant that every day counted. And it was also true that, if you missed a practical, the instructors made make-up tests more difficult. Jim had gone through a lot; the least McCoy could do was get him back on his feet as quickly as possible.

"Come on, Bones." Jim was still protesting. "Any other doctor would—"

"Any other doctor would keep you here at least 72 hours. I'm going to pull a double shift to get you out of here in 36. Argue with me and I'll make sure you stick around for the week."

* * *

Jim had now been in the hospital for nearly twenty-four hours. The good news, from McCoy's perspective, was that he'd been able to repair nearly all of Jim's injuries. The shoulder had been reset, the rib fractures largely healed, and the lashes on his back cleaned, disinfected, and sealed. Even better, despite Jim's protestations, McCoy had sedated him for most of the procedures, meaning that Jim had finally gotten the sleep his body so desperately craved. Drug-induced sleep wasn't as good as the natural form, but it sure beat the alternative. It also had the side benefit of allowing McCoy to work more quickly and efficiently.

He was now the one who needed sleep, McCoy thought wryly. He was beginning to regret his promise to Jim to release him in thirty-six hours because he knew that, at the beginning of hour thirty-seven, Jim would start nagging; he wanted out of here now. As a result, McCoy had caught only a few catnaps since Jim had been admitted and was looking forward to discharging his prime patient and hitting the sack.

The only things that remained to be done were treating Jim's kidney and running a dermal regenerator over the scars on his back. He and the nephrologist had agreed that neither surgery nor regeneration for the kidney would be necessary. Instead, they'd use a combination of drugs and cryosonic therapy to repair most of the damage, and let the rest heal on its own.

"So, did they really make you eat bugs and rabbits?" McCoy asked from behind him. He'd positioned Jim on his left side, leaning forward into the bed, with the front of his body propped up with pillows, to expose his right kidney region to the healing beam.

McCoy hoped that the combination of sleep, analgesics, and treating most of the physical injuries sustained at the camp might make Jim a bit more forthcoming regarding his experience. He'd decided against slipping Jim medication that would release some of his mental inhibitions and make him more talkative. At least for now, he'd take the traditional approach and start with a topic that Jim might be willing to discuss.

"Yeah, I ate my share of worms, but not the whole time. The first week we had POW-rations. Bones, I swear a starving dog wouldn't eat that shit. Of course, by week two when we only had berries and whatever we could kill, they looked a hell of a lot better."

McCoy made an adjustment, then activated the beam. "How's that feel?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. "Okay. Warm. Tingly."

"Good. Let me know if it gets too hot. It's not supposed to burn."

McCoy pulled a chair into position where Jim could see him but wasn't forced to look at him. McCoy didn't need to stay; Jim's treatment could be monitored remotely by the nursing staff, but he hoped to use this opportunity to get Jim to talk about what had happened.

"I've heard that the first week is all about survival skills," he prodded. "Is that true?"

_The men and women on the shuttle tried hard not to show the nerves that they all felt as they headed off for an experience that was legendary at the Academy – the Mock Prisoner of War course, also known as four weeks of physical and mental torture designed to prepare them for the worst. Cadets who'd gone through it rarely discussed it with those who hadn't. It was, the veterans said, something that couldn't be explained, something you had to experience for yourself. Jim and four others were about to have that experience._

_Jim recognized two of the cadets from his classes at the Academy – Fortis and Washington. Both were considered solid cadets with bright futures. Another, named Karobi, reportedly was repeating the course because he'd been too seriously injured in week one last year to continue. The final member of the group wasn't a cadet but a female lieutenant named Malique. Having started her career as a science officer, she'd recently transferred to the command track. And now, as the senior member of this group, she'd undoubtedly be singled out by the POW interrogators for special treatment._

_After a few unsuccessful attempts to lighten the mood with mindless chatter, the five went quiet. Jim wasn't too worried. He'd heard about the disorientation, humiliation and beatings he was likely to experience. As he glanced around the shuttle, he was willing to bet that he was the only one in the group who'd already experienced all of those things. It wasn't that he expected the course to be a breeze, only that he had some expectation of what was to come and how to erect his mental shields to deal with it. _

"The instructors took us into the field," Jim continued, "and taught us how to survive with no phaser, no tricorder, nothing but a knife. It's pretty amazing what you can do when you have to."

"Such as?"

"Building a shelter out of brush and leaves, or even snow. Figuring out which plants are safe to eat."

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "And what if you're wrong? They can't expect you learn every plant in the universe."

Jim smiled at the exaggeration. "They gave us a tricorder that we could only use to check if the food was safe before we ate it. I guess they weren't willing to let us kill ourselves over a stupid berry."

McCoy exhaled slowly. Jim seemed comfortable with this conversation and, for now, McCoy would keep it within his safety zone. "What else did you learn?"

"How to cover our tracks, trap and kill wild animals, and how to maximize their food value—"

McCoy couldn't help but grimace. "Sounds delicious." He had no problem cutting open animals and in fact had done it many times in the lab. Eating the results was something else entirely.

"Wasn't as bad as I expected. Besides, that was only part of it. They taught us land nav, how to make weapons, camouflage, how to avoid capture . . . In all seriousness, Bones, I learned a lot. It was great."

"If you say so." He stood up from the chair and made an adjustment to the machine. "So that's week one. What about week two?"

* * *

Author's Note: I've modeled the Starfleet Mock POW Course on the US military's SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape) course. However, it is only a LOOSE analogy. The level of injury inflicted on Jim would never be permitted nor would some of the experiences contained in my story. There are stringent controls on the course and those who have gone through it and subsequently been a real POW have credited with making their experience easier to deal with.


	25. Mock POW Evasion and Resistance

"They dumped us out in the middle of nowhere and we tried to keep from being captured."

_A jacket, boots, a knife, a manual compass, a small piece of rope . . . Those few precious items were all that stood between Jim and capture by the enemy forces trying to find him. This was a solo exercise. Once dropped into the landing zone, he had to stay hidden while also staying within a prescribed geographic area. Leave it, and an alarm – triggered by an implant in his wrist – would immediately sound. He had seconds to return to his allotted zone or risk being disqualified, which also meant immediate capture._

_In theory, the task seemed simple enough – avoid capture as long as possible. In reality, it was damn hard. The instructors dropped him into unfamiliar territory without sophisticated equipment, such as phasers and tricorders, and without any food, water, shelter or other things that might keep him alive. He was on his own. And they were doing their best to find him. _

_Of course, the instructors had similar restrictions. They couldn't simply track him down with a tricorder – at least not until the end of this phase of the course. To track down the mock prisoners, the mock captors were required to use equivalent levels of technological sophistication. If they wanted to use a tricorder to find him, they had to give him one to detect them. Everyone knew that, in real life, the enemy might well have a technical advantage. However, for purposes of the course, equality made for a more interesting and fair experience._

"Did they actually try to find you?"

"The first day or so they didn't try too hard. I guess they wanted us to test our survival skills, so we'd only get caught if we did something really stupid. It got harder and harder not to get captured."

_He felt like he was dying of thirst. People often used that as an idiom to describe basic thirst without having any idea what it actually meant to be close to death for lack of liquid. In theory, he knew, the human body could survive up to ten days without water. That assumed cold, dry conditions, shade, and lack of exertion. While the evenings were quite cold, daytime in whatever hellhole they'd left him__,__ found temperatures in the 30s Centigrade and the only liquid he'd consumed in the past 48 hours was a sliver of juice from edible berries. Jim estimated it amounted to less than 50 milliliters. At the rate he was expending energy, it wasn't nearly enough to survive much longer and his desperation for water was now consuming him, as it rightly should. _

_He'd located a source of water – a small stream approximately a kilometer from where he now stood. The problem wasn't getting there. The terrain between him and liquid nourishment was passable. The problem was that this stream seemed to be the only source of water within the confines of his territory. If Jim had figured that out, so had those tracking him, he was sure. _

_Not only had he gone 48 hours without water, he'd spent most of those hours awake. Jim estimated that he'd managed only a handful of catnaps since he'd begun his survival program, and now he was damned tired. The lack of nourishment and the overwhelming fatigue was making it hard to think clearly, let alone strategize effectively. He rubbed a dirty hand over his unshaven face and sucked in a deep breath of air. A glance at his chronometer showed that night was rapidly approaching._

_Jim had decided to approach the stream from the north, which meant a strenuous climb up and then down a 1000 meter mountain. Doing it without a tricorder or night vision goggles was stupid, which meant that the pursuers wouldn't expect it. That was exactly what Jim was counting on._

_As dusk fell, Jim began his approach. He listened intently for any hint of human sound as his eyes scanned for anything that seemed unnatural – a flash that could signal metal or a movement that seemed more man than animal. All appeared normal, silent, still. Slowly, stealthily, Jim emerged from the brush and crept toward the bottom of the small mountain._

_He easily scrambled up the first twenty meters, pausing each time a soft foothold sent pebbles and rocks dribbling downward. To his ears, the sound was deafening and, with each step of ascent, Jim waited for the shout or beam or flash of light that indicated his pursuers had locked onto him. Each time they didn't come, Jim wondered if they were simply waiting for him at the top – let him burn all his energy making the climb, only to show themselves once he thought he was home free. It didn't matter – if he didn't get water soon, the monitors all cadets wore would signal his physical decline, and would lead to his immediate capture on medical grounds._

_Lacking gloves, Jim had torn pieces from his jacket to make improvised handwraps. As the terrain became steeper, he reached for slim handholds, his shoulders straining as he pulled himself from one outcropping to another. He stopped at a small ledge to catch his breath, ears again searching for signs of pursuit. The only sounds were those Jim had come to recognize as indigenous wildlife, probably searching for prey. A quick scan upward helped him chart the route to the top._

_Pushing off from his toes, he strained to put his hand on the tiniest crack of rock above and to his left. Fingers locked onto the smooth edge and his right foot pushed against protruding stone, struggling to move higher. His body stretched unnaturally as he fought against gravity, muscles screaming with the effort. _

_Suddenly, his right foot slipped, throwing him off balance and forcing his left foot from its hold. In less than a second, Jim found himself hanging by his fingertips from the side of the mountain. Shit. His toes scrambled to find new footholds, sending more debris sliding down the hill. The pendulum motion of his body caused his right hand to lose its grip and, before he knew what had happened, his entire body weight was being held by the four fingers of his left hand. He couldn't prevent a groan from escaping as his eyes frantically searched for something else to grab onto. His shoulder felt as if it was being pulled out of its socket. The ground was at least 200 meters below and a tumble down the mountain from this height could well be deadly._

_Jim wasn't sure he could stand another few seconds of this agony; he had to find some way to relieve the pressure on his left side. He couldn't hang on. He was going to fall. Instinctively, as his body prepared to absorb the expected impact, his right foot swung out from his body, seeking something, anything to hold onto. _

_It stopped. His leg stopped moving. His toe had found a crack and he pushed his foot into the wedge, almost crying out as the pressure on his shoulder eased just a bit. It wasn't enough to hold him for long; he had to find another edge for his right hand. Fingers arched upward and, almost as if a prayer had been answered, caught onto something. He gripped down hard, pulled even harder, using the three anchored points of his body to propel himself higher, away from danger and closer to the water that could mean the difference between capture and surviving another day. _

_When he reached the highest point of his ascent a few minutes later, he crouched on the small ledge, panting and sweating even in the night's cold air. Jim couldn't waste time savoring his success. In less than half of the time it had taken him to make the climb, he reached the foot of the mountain. Ahead, he could hear the soft rustle of the running stream. And something else. _

_Human voices. Shit. It'd all been for nothing. He'd wasted what little energy remained to make this approach only to find that his captors had beaten him to it. They were here waiting for him, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to avoid them, if he wanted water._

McCoy found himself unexpectedly entranced by Jim's story. "So what did you do?"

"Left the area."

"They didn't catch you?"

"Not then."

"What'd you'd do for water?"

Jim gave a brief smile. "Made my way downstream. Found a cactus with enough water to hold me for another day. The next day it rained. It only lasted for about ten minutes but I collected almost a liter of water. I can't tell you how great it tasted – even better than 110 proof bourbon."

"And you evaded capture."

"Lived to eat worms another day."

"What would have happened if you'd never been caught?"

Jim gave a bitter smile. "Not an option. They implant a tracking device so, if they don't find you on their own, they can track you down when they're ready to move to the POW stage."

"Doesn't sound fair."

Jim shrugged. "Every day you avoid capture is one less day as a POW, so it pays to stay hidden."

"How many days did you hold out?"

This time Jim's smile was broader. "Five. The whole time."

"Impressive." McCoy _was _impressed and Jim deserved to know it, as he doubted Jim's captors had given him any satisfaction in the achievement. "And I bet you ate next to nothing the entire time." He clucked his tongue. "No wonder you've lost so much weight."

"It's not that much," Jim protested.

"I'd call ten kilos in less than a month more than plenty." The monitors over the bed showed Jim's vital signs remained stable. Time to move the story forward, a bit out of Jim's comfort zone. "What happened when they found you?"

"I was sleeping. All of the sudden I woke up surrounded by five guys screaming and pointing weapons at me. They were speaking some language I didn't know but I figured they weren't inviting me to the local five-star hotel."

McCoy couldn't help but grin at the comment. At least Jim was relaxed enough to make a joke.

"Then they drugged me with a hypo." Jim pointedly raised his eyebrows. "Perfect job for you, Bones."

"I prefer to heal people rather than torture them," he replied drily.

Jim ignored the barb. "Next thing I knew I woke up in some sort of cell. Things were a little hazy at first. Don't know how long they left me alone. All of the sudden the lights would come on full and the next minute it was pitch black dark."

"Sensory deprivation."

"You don't realize how important chronometers are until they take yours away."

McCoy nodded toward the injury he was working on. "When did all this happen?" He sensed Jim tense and, without looking at the monitors, knew his BP and pulse had both spiked.

_In the windowless room, time ceased to have meaning. At some point, food was shoved into the cell through a small hole near the floor. Jim knew it could be drugged but, after nearly a week with virtually nothing to eat or drink, he was too starved to care. Greedily, he shoved the gruel into his mouth, knowing his body needed the energy that the poor excuse for a meal would provide._

_It was dark when they came for him, shouting at him to stand away from the door. A hood was pulled tightly over his head and he was dragged out of the room. Jim, like each of the mock POWs, had been given classified information beforehand and told which pieces were more critical to protect than others. As he was shoved and pushed forward, Jim suspected that his determination to keep the secrets safe was about to be put to the test for the first time._

_Hands were secured behind his back and the hood was jerked off of his head. Rough hands pushed on his shoulders and he found himself falling until his butt hit the edge of a chair. His eyes blinked rapidly at the sudden brightness. _

"_Welcome to Dominia." _

_The lilting voice belonged to a woman Jim could only describe as an Amazon on a diet. Tall – Jim estimated that she was nearly two meters in height – with a lithe, thin body that seemed too small for her broad muscular shoulders. Blonde, with darting brown eyes, and hard, determined features._

_Jim stayed quiet. Don't volunteer anything. The advice had been drilled into them during training. _

"_Who are you, Starfleet?"_

"_Cadet James Tiberius Kirk. Service number Bravo 429 November 663 Delta."_

"_Very good, James. And your ship?"_

_Jim met her eyes without speaking._

"_Come now, James." She stepped closer, reaching one finger under his chin and easily lifted it upward. Jim was surprised at the strength emanating from that gesture. "It's a simple question. Don't make me resort to . . . other measures . . . over __this__."_

_Jim stared straight ahead, trying to avoid focusing on anything._

"_Should I tell you? You're from the USS Neil Armstrong."_

_She was right, of course, but Jim wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing it._

"_What's your mission here?"_

"_We're here to explore and promote the peaceful goals of the Federation."_

_The slap to his face was so hard and so unexpected that he fell out of the chair, landing hard on the cement floor. With his arms tied behind him, the fall sent waves of pain through his body. While he was sucking wind trying to get his wits about him, his gut absorbed the full force of her boot. Given his already depleted physical state, the blow felt as hard as any he'd ever absorbed. It was all he could do not to vomit all over himself and the floor._

"_Do not lie to me, James," she said without even acknowledging his discomfort. "I promise you that I will make every lie hurt worse than the last one. Do you understand?"_

_Jim was too busy gulping and trying not to puke to answer. _

_This time the blow was to his knee, resulting in a new explosion of pain. His body fought to keep up with the points of agony._

"_Do you understand?" Calm, collected, as if she could do this all day. Hell, she probably had, more than a few times._

"_Yes," he managed to gasp._

_His lower back screamed as he was kicked from behind. "Yes what, you sack of shit." Must be one of her goons._

"_Yes, you sack of shit." His insolence was rewarded with another kick. It took several more to his back and gut until he "got it right," at least in their view. "Yes, Commander."_

"_Much better," responded the melodic voice above him. "Now that you know I'm serious, let's start over. What is the name of your ship?"_

_God, he hurt. And he'd been under mock interrogation for less than ten minutes. "My name . . . is James T. Kirk, Cadet . . . serial number B429N466D."_

_The question was repeated several more times and, each time, he gave the answer he'd been trained to give. Name, rank, service number. Hold onto that as long as you possibly can, they'd said. Right._

"_Very well, you've made your choice. Take him," she finished ominously._

McCoy remained seated for a moment, absorbed in the story.

"A few minutes later they dragged me to another room. There were two guys – both looked like they'd never missed a workout. The first one stripped off all of my clothes and then strung me up by my wrists from the ceiling while some other guy asked the questions. Only he was holding a whip."

McCoy forced himself not to show any emotion, trying not to focus on how Jim must have felt being subjected to a beating again.

"It hurt, but I knew they couldn't kill me."

In other words, it hurt like hell, but Jim was inured to beatings. The tormenters couldn't have known that, which probably meant they'd had to move on to something more severe.

"It was like a crazy routine. They asked questions, I didn't give answers, they beat me up. Strange as it sounds, I started to get used to it."

Jim paused for a minute, seemingly lost in the memory. McCoy, thinking that would be the end of the story for now, pushed his hands against the armrest of the chair and started to rise.

"And then it changed." Jim's voice was almost a whisper.


	26. Mock POW Capitulation

Year 3 – Kirk (continued)

**Warning: This chapter contains explicit physical violence. **

McCoy ran the scanner along Jim's body, checking to ensure the various treatments were having their desired effect. Jim remained on his side, a healing beam working on his kidney. Once again he marveled at the kid's amazing recuperative powers. Jim would largely be back to normal in another 48 hours when, by all rights, he should be laid up for at least a week.

As McCoy continued his ministrations, he noted that Jim seemed to relax, the tension ebbing from his body. "It was only the beginning of what?" he asked in what he hoped was a conversational tone that would encourage Jim to keep talking.

"Huh?"

"You said that the stuff with the Lieutenant was only the beginning."

"Bones." Jim's eyes closed and he took a deep breath. " Give it a rest."

"Jim, we both know that as soon as I clear you medically, there'll be an official debriefing. Talking through it now with me might help."

"Playing shrink, Bones?"

McCoy shook his head. "You've told me most of it. Might as well finish the story."

"It isn't a fairy tale."

"I know."

Jim grunted in apparent frustration. "If you're so fucking determined . . . ."

_He'd lost all sense of time, his world reduced to a series of beatings interrupted by periods alone in his cell, virtually unable to sleep or even think with the constant changes in temperature, light, and incessant noise. The fact he knew they were designed to disorient him didn't make the experience any easier. The only good news was that, based on the time he'd already spent here, the end of this experience must be near. This was Starfleet, not a real POW camp, and eventually he had to be returned to his life as a cadet._

"_Prisoner! Get up! Get up now!"_

_The lights instantly came on at full intensity and Jim had to shield his eyes. Shit, not again. Would it be a beating, a whipping, humiliation, something new? Tired beyond the point of physical and mental exhaustion, it was becoming almost impossible to think at all, let alone think clearly. He'd been reduced to an automaton, absorbing physical punishment without giving up the information he was supposed to keep secret, more out of habit than any purposeful intent._

_He slowly and painfully pulled himself to his knees, the days of abuse taking their toll on his body. Before he could stand, something was thrown at him. Involuntarily, he ducked and the objects landed beside him – clothes. _

"_Get dressed."_

_Jim didn't argue with this command. The fact he'd become accustomed to being naked around his interrogators didn't mean he'd enjoyed it, and clothes meant comfort and warmth. Nonetheless, his many injuries made dressing a long and difficult process. _

_The interrogator remained silent as he was led to the now-familiar torture room. This probably meant another round with the whip. However, the interrogator always wanted him stripped and they'd just had him put on his clothes. Something was wrong but Jim's brain was too fogged with fatigue to even try to make sense of it. At this point, he was reduced to going along and hoping he'd figure something out when he needed to._

_Inside the familiar room, the well-used wrist straps hung from the ceiling. However, this time, someone was already in them. The body was small, naked but for a pair of briefs, and, as Jim processed the sight, realized that the victim was a child, a young boy, facing away from him. His pure white skin was unmarked; if the boy had already been tortured, there were no obvious physical signs._

_Who is he? Jim wanted to ask. What was he doing here? Jim knew not to say anything, not to react at all as he was prodded into the room and pushed into a plush chair facing the victim. His hands and feet were secured tightly to the chair so that the only sight in front of him was the young boy. _

_Wide, terrified, dark brown eyes stared back at him. The boy was trying to look brave and failing miserably. His knees trembled and his face quivered so hard that a lock of hair fell over his forehead; it was as if he was resigned to his fate._

"_Tommy?" One of the interrogators cupped his thumb under the boy's chin, tilting it upward. "Meet Cadet Kirk. He's going to be the one who decides what happens to you today. Say hello."_

_The boy continued to hang limply from the straps._

_This time the interrogator lightly slapped his face. "I told you to say hello."_

_The boy recoiled from the blow, even though it appeared no more threatening than a tap. "Hello," he said so softly that Jim could barely hear._

"_Kirk, say hello to Tommy."_

_Jim's stomach clenched at the sickness of what was happening. Nothing good could come of speaking. He closed his eyes and kept his mouth shut, mentally steeling himself for the blow to his head or gut that was sure to come._

_The sound of a hard slap was followed by a cry. When Jim's eyes flew open, he saw the boy's pristine face now marked with a soft red welt and the interrogator's face covered with a sickly smile. Shit, they'd hit the kid as punishment for Jim's lack of cooperation. _

"_I told you to say hello to Tommy." The steely voice of the interrogator filled the silence.  
_

_Tommy visibly tensed in anticipation of Jim's reaction, as if praying for him to obey. _

_He couldn't allow the kid to endure another blow simply because he wouldn't offer a greeting. Nothing in the Code of Conduct prevented this. _

"_Hello, Tommy," he said through gritted teeth. _

_The boy's eyes flicked to the interrogator waiting to see what response Jim's comment provoked._

"_Much better," the guard replied with a sneer directed at Jim. "Now that you see how this works, I'm going to ask you a series of questions. Every time you give me the wrong answer, I'm going to take it out on the kid. Do we understand each other?"_

_Was he still in Starfleet? Could they really do this? The boy couldn't be more than ten, maybe 12 years old. He wasn't part of Starfleet. Why was he here? His mind struggled to keep up. _

_Whack! "Oooowww!"_

_The noise pulled Jim from his reverie. The kid tried unsuccessfully to lick away the blood pooling on his lip. _

"_Yes I understand," Jim said hastily, unable to tear his eyes from the sight in front of him._

"_Good. Question number one. How many photon torpedoes does your ship carry?"_

_No way could he provide this information, that much had been made very clear. _

"_I'm going to ask you one more time." Jim saw raw fear in the boy's eyes as the interrogator repeated the question and Jim remained silent. _

_It was Jim's eyes that widened as the interrogator motioned to his accomplice. There was the whine of the whip through the air and the sickly crack of leather against skin. The boy's entire body jerked from the force of the lash, and the scream seemed to start before the blow had even landed. It wasn't a single scream; the boy continued to cry out in an almost methodical wail._

_Jim strained against his bonds, biting down hard on his lip. He heard the boy trembling and shrieking. Jim was overwhelmed with anger and the knowledge that he'd caused this._

"_Kirk, are you going to answer me?" The interrogator stared intently into Jim's face and, when there was no response, flicked his hand. Instantly, the whip flashed and again the boy screamed and tried unsuccessfully to pull away from the source of the pain._

"_This is going to be a very long day, Kirk, if you don't start answering questions."_

"_Please." The word was almost a whisper as Tommy's eyes pleaded with him to make this horror stop._

_Jim held out for another three blows. _

"I gave them the information they wanted. I broke."


	27. Mock POW Confrontation

Halfway into Jim's story, McCoy had given up on the dermal regenerator. For one of the few times in his life, he simply couldn't hold the instrument steady. Now, he resisted the urge to give an immediate reply. That explained everything. Well, maybe not everything, but almost everything. Whether accidentally or intentionally, the interrogators had found and exploited Jim's weakness. He could endure more physical punishment than most men; he'd allow a fellow officer – even a woman – to be beaten and possibly sexually assaulted. From what McCoy had been able to piece together about Jim's past, the torture of child, especially a young boy, was the one thing he couldn't sit by and allow to happen.

How could the abuse Jim described happen in Starfleet? Would they actually harm a child simply to get a cadet to give up pretend secrets? McCoy was damn sure he would find out. For now, the most important thing was helping Jim deal with what had happened.

"Jim, they were torturing a child, for God's sake. Not to mention that you'd had no sleep, not enough food or water, and were severely injured. What the hell were you supposed to do? Let it go on until they killed the kid?"

Jim's mouth was tight. "I was supposed to protect the classified information. That's what Starfleet expects of its officers, especially those on the command track. What if those had been real enemies?"

McCoy shook his head. "Look, I took the Code of Conduct course too. You're supposed to do your best to avoid giving up information. Starfleet doesn't expect perfection."

"Perfection." Jim almost spat out the word. "I wasn't even adequate."

"Jim, I've spent the past day and a half repairing what they did to you. As a doctor, I know what these sorts of injuries do to a person physically and mentally. It's called torture for a reason, and you endured more pain in a few days than most people will experience in a lifetime."

"Pain? Dammit, Bones, they didn't cut off my fingers or my balls. Didn't drown me. Didn't use electroshock or try to drown me. Didn't do half of the stuff they could have – stuff that most real captors would have. If I gave up after the piddling crap they did, what's going to happen if I'm subjected to real torture?"

McCoy flinched at the hurt in Jim's voice. Jim prided himself on his toughness, never backing down or giving up. It was almost his trademark. The fact that he hadn't held out in the camp was clearly eating at him. McCoy was having none of it. "Real torture? If making you responsible for injuries to an innocent child isn't torture, I don't know what is."

It was as if Jim wasn't even listening to him. "I didn't even know the kid. Maybe he was supposed to be a terrorist or murderer; maybe he deserved what he was getting."

"Jim, you don't actually believe that and neither do I. I know you didn't want to break; I understand that. I can also tell you that everyone I've examined after the course has broken and every one of them has felt like shit about it." It wasn't, McCoy knew, that Starfleet was trying to knock the self-confidence out of its cadets. Rather, they understood reality. You could do everything right and still have things go south. Not too many POWs felt good about their experience and it was better that cadets realized what awaited them, during and after, now and started learning how to deal with those feelings.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Jim asked, bitterness evident in his tone. "I'm not here to fail.

McCoy kept his mouth shut; clearly nothing he said would make any difference to Jim. He was a doctor, not a command cadet. He wasn't expected to have classified information, wasn't likely to be tortured if captured. Jim would simply say that he couldn't understand. And maybe he couldn't.

But he knew someone who could.

* * *

While patience might be a virtue, McCoy's patience had worn thin nearly an hour ago. He'd rushed to Pike's Academy office only to be stopped by an assistant with delusions of grandeur.

"Captain Pike is busy," the yeoman said, somehow managing to look down his nose at McCoy from a seated position. "You can make an appointment . . ." He pointedly stared at the automated calendar on his desk. "For a week from Tuesday at 1545. I think I can squeeze you in for ten minutes," the assistant added in a tone that suggested this would be the most difficult task he'd performed all week.

"I'll wait," McCoy replied with determination. "I need to see him today, not next week." It was all he could do to keep his comments civil and his voice calm. Pissing off Pike's gatekeeper wouldn't do much for his cause.

The yeoman blinked several times, then gave him an obvious eye roll and an even more pronounced shrug. "If you want to sit here, I guess I can't stop you." He gestured half-heartedly to the uncomfortable-looking ante room chairs and then pointedly turned back to his work.

The yeoman did an excellent job of managing to ignore McCoy as he went about his duties. Answering comms, scheduling appointments, sending and receiving files – it was as if McCoy wasn't even in the room. McCoy's directed stares at his chronometer had no effect.

Finally, McCoy decided to break the silence. "How long is Pike's meeting?"

The yeoman twisted toward him as if, for the first time, noticing he was sitting there. "As long as he wants it to be."

McCoy bit down hard on his lip, praying the asshole would one day soon end up on his OR table so he could return the favor. "How long is the meeting _scheduled_ to last?"

"1400. But," he added quickly, "Captain Pike has another meeting scheduled for that time. He's really booked the entire afternoon." The yeoman turned away, with a finality that suggested this conversation was over.

Another twenty minutes went by in silence as McCoy considered how much damage he'd do to his career by simply barging into Pike's office. He was willing to chance it. What he wasn't willing to chance was that Pike had voice-locked the office, meaning that he'd run into a fixed door. Not only would that make him look like a total idiot, it would—

The door opened and Pike, accompanied by two other senior officers, walked out. One of them had obviously said something funny because all three were laughing.

McCoy jumped to his feet. "Captain Pike, I need to speak with you."

Somehow, Pike's yeoman had managed to place himself between the two men. "Sir, he just barged in here. I told him you were busy and that he'd have to wait—"

Pike's eyes slowly met his. The only indication he was the least bit disturbed by the intrusion was a narrowing of his eyes and tightening of his jaw. "It's all right, Alex," he said without taking his eyes from McCoy. "I'll handle it."

The two senior officers also turned toward McCoy and, obviously noticing for the first time that he was only a cadet, didn't try to hide their astonishment.

"Decorum, Cadet!" one of them, a female commander, told him sharply.

"Chris, what's going on here?" the other, a male Captain asked.

McCoy ignored them, furious eyes focused intently on Pike.

"Doctor," Pike said, "As you've been told, I'm very busy today. Perhaps we can discuss whatever's on your mind later—"

McCoy stood tall, making himself as physically imposing as possible, which was tough with the equally commanding Pike. "We need to talk now, Captain," he said, barely containing the fury in his voice.

Pike stared for a moment, then turned to his visitors. "Tom, Grace – I think we're done for today."

McCoy didn't take his eyes from Pike's as the other officers, mumbling about insubordination and the impudence of cadets these days left the office. Pike motioned for McCoy to enter his office and, as soon as the door swished closed behind them, Pike sealed it with a voice lock.

He carefully seated himself behind the desk, leaving McCoy standing in front of him. "Well, Doctor, what has you in such a twit?"

"Jim Kirk and that POW Camp you're running. It's a goddamn torture chamber."

Pike didn't so much as flinch. "Doctor McCoy." He voice remained flat and hard as steel. "If you want to discuss a military matter with me, you will conduct yourself appropriately. If you cannot do so, our discussion is over."

McCoy took a deep breath and tried to rein in some the anger and frustration that had built up over the last day and especially in the hour he'd cooled his heels in Pike's waiting room. "Did you read my report on Kirk?" All medical reports on the mock POWs went straight to Pike as Head of Training.

McCoy waited for a nod. "Then you know what those bastards did to him."

Pike kept his eyes locked on McCoy. "Yes, Doctor, I read your report. Some of the conduct appears to violate the regulations governing the operations of the camp. I promise you that there will be an investigation and appropriate measures will be taken."

"Appropriate measures?" He nearly spat out the words, not caring that he was again letting his anger get the best of him. "Did you actually read my entire report? This is Starfleet, for God's sake. We aren't supposed to rape women or torture children. What the hell are 'appropriate measures' to deal with something like that?"

Pike tilted his head. "I understand your anger. I know that Jim is a friend of yours."

"Don't patronize me, Captain. What happened in that camp shouldn't happen anywhere, let alone in Starfleet. What kind of program are you running?"

Pike appeared to bristle at the comment and McCoy wasn't altogether displeased to see the first signs of discomfiture. "Doctor, not everything is as it seems."

"Oh, it's not, is it?" McCoy was content to release some of his pent-up frustration on the man he considered ultimately responsible for what had happened. "Well, why don't you tell me what that means.

"Doctor McCoy." Pike's voice sliced through the air like a machete. "I've allowed you this lapse of decorum because of our past experience and because I know you're Jim's friend. However, you're still a cadet and I'm still a Starfleet Captain. If you don't change your tone and your attitude immediately, you will regret it."

McCoy took a deep breath and focused on ratcheting down the volume and tenor of his voice. "My apologies, Captain. However, as a doctor, it galls me to see cadets tortured by our own people." He clasped his hands together in front of him and then, realizing he hadn't been given permission to relax, replaced them at his sides. "With all due respect, sir," he said with as much deference as he could manage, "I think I deserve an explanation."

Pike, in turn, seemed to relent and motioned him into a chair. "Sit down, Doctor."

McCoy, thankful at no longer having to stand at a position of virtual attention, carefully lowered himself into a chair that was much more comfortable than those in the waiting room. Nonetheless, he kept himself on the front edge, making sure he didn't get – or look – too comfortable.

Pike continued in a calm, quiet voice. "I agree that you are entitled to an explanation. Let me address the allegations in your report one at a time. First, Lt. Malique was not sexually assaulted."

McCoy started to object, but Pike waived him off. "She was subjected to the same beatings as the other mock prisoners. She was _not_ sexually assaulted. If you don't believe me, I suggest you speak with Lt. Malique herself or check with Dr. LeMay, who performed her post-camp exam."

McCoy knew Kathryn LeMay as one of the most competent and ethical physicians he'd met at Starfleet. If she said the lieutenant hadn't been raped, it hadn't happened. He found himself nodding involuntarily.

Pike was still talking, his voice as calm and measured as ever. "I think you'll find that Kirk never observed any actual assault. The interrogators made him think she would be raped and then, later, maybe even suggested that she had been assaulted. That's fairly par for the course. It's important for Starfleet personnel to learn to deal with threats or even brutality against fellow officers. But we don't engage in such brutality."

That made a certain sense, but only answered one of his concerns. "Then what about the boy they tortured?"

Pike took a deep breath. "An actor. While he may look like a boy, he's of legal age. And he wasn't harmed beyond one light slap. It looked real but it was all fake, just like in the vids."

McCoy sighed heavily. "And Jim was too broken down and exhausted to discern the difference." He was starting to understand what had really happened and wished he hadn't been quite so rash in bursting into Pike's office. He realized the senior officer was exerting considerable patience.

Pike's eyes met his. "Exactly. It's what real interrogators would do, although," he shrugged, "they might well cause actual harm."

"And what about Jim's injuries? The splintered ribs and damaged kidney? I treated those injuries myself, Captain, and I can assure you they were real."

"I don't doubt you for a minute, Doctor. The interrogators apparently became frustrated when Jim didn't break under the usual physical techniques and got carried away. It's unacceptable, and you have my word as a Starfleet officer that those responsible will be dealt with." He sucked in and released a breath. "Harshly."

Pike had a reputation for integrity, and McCoy believed he would do exactly what he said. It still wouldn't solve the biggest problem that remained. "I appreciate that, Captain, but it doesn't help Jim."

Pike eyed him curiously. "Your report indicated his injuries were all treatable and that there would be no lasting effects."

"That's true."

Pike's eyebrows lifted. "So what's the problem – from a medical standpoint, that is?"

"Jim Kirk believes he deserved everything that happened to him and more, because he broke."

Pike waved a hand dismissively. "Of course he broke. Everyone breaks. It's like the _Kobayashi Maru_ – failing is part of the process. It's expected – certainly nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not sure I understand how this is a good thing."

"Doctor, most of the overachievers we recruit for Starfleet are convinced that, if they're just tough enough, they can hold out under torture. Yet we know from the experience of actual POWs that, with proper interrogation, everyone will break. It's not a matter of physical or psychological fortitude; it's a matter of physiology. Pain and drugs are a powerful combination – you should know that."

It was true, as McCoy had told Jim.

"We try to get our cadets to understand that and figure out how to hold out as long as is reasonable under the circumstances and how to accept the fact that failure is almost certain. We hope the training we provide will help them if they ever find themselves captured. Veteran POWs say that it does."

McCoy nodded. "I know that. You know that. At some level, Jim probably knows it too. Even so, he's beating himself up over the fact that he gave up whatever secrets he was supposed to protect."

"I've explained it to you. You can explain it to him."

McCoy shook his head. "I'm 'just' a doctor, Captain, not a commanding officer. It wouldn't mean anything to him coming from me." Jim would listen and go right back to his brooding, believing that there was a way to beat the system when the system was designed to beat him. It was a lesson Jim Kirk, who never liked to lose at anything, seemed to have trouble understanding.

Pike held up his palms. "So what do you want me to do about it?"

"Speaking as his doctor, there's nothing more you need to do – other than punish the bastards who did this." Oops, he'd let his mouth go again but, thankfully, this time, Pike didn't call him on it.

"And speaking as his friend?"

So Pike did care; maybe he could tap into that. "You recruited Jim into Starfleet and, from what he's said, your decision was based on a combination of your gut, his untapped potential and hope. Jim looks up to you. Explaining why the process works the way it does . . . Never mind, Captain. Jim's tough. He'll deal with it just like he's dealt . . . ." McCoy sucked in a breath and closed his mouth. He'd said enough.

For the first time since McCoy had entered the room, Pike's demeanor seemed to soften. "I have a pretty good idea what you're telling me, McCoy. For what it's worth, what the interrogators did with the lieutenant and the boy was pretty standard interrogation technique. I have no reason to believe they were familiar with Jim's . . . personal history."

"Even if what you say is true, that doesn't change the effect on Jim."

Pike took a deep breath. "I take it you want me to talk to him."

"I think it would help."

Pike gave him a weak smile. "Is that Dr. McCoy or Jim's friend talking?"

It was McCoy's turn to smile. "Both."


	28. On Call  Year 3

On Call – Year 3

He'd sworn the day he'd left Atlanta that he'd stop making house calls. After the kitchen table surgery on Jim, McCoy had promised himself that he'd never agree to do such a thing again. He'd send cadets who called him to medical, no matter how they tried to convince him to treat them. And yet, he hadn't been able to do it.

Despite his resolve, he found it harder than expected to send a kid to the bureaucracy that was the Academy clinic when he could take care of their problem just as efficiently in one-tenth the time. It took only a couple of "slips" – a cut here, a broken bone there – for his fellow cadets to discover that he was a competent and discreet physician. They were even willing to endure his irreverent sarcasm to avail themselves of his services – it was almost like having a concierge physician at their beck and call. Soon, the demands for his services increased exponentially.

Starfleet looked the other way – doctors could treat cadets in their off hours provided they followed up with the appropriate notations in the patient's official chart. For his part, McCoy found it rather satisfying to have his fellow students rely on him for their care rather than use official channels. The medical issues were typically minor and quick to deal with – he still sent cadets with major issues to the clinic. And, he admitted to himself, it was probably good practice should he end up on a starship where this sort of thing would be the norm. As "payment" for his impromptu medical care, McCoy received certain favors from his erstwhile patients – tickets to concerts, first in line to select his classes, a bottle of bourbon, and even the occasional homecooked meals.

The latest call had come from Gaila – Jim's off and on girlfriend – on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. McCoy knew he should be taking advantage of the sunny San Francisco day to get outside and do something that involved fresh air. Instead, he was inside his dorm room editing the protocols for his third-year research project. He'd decided to evaluate the pros and cons of using quarantine procedures on a starship to stem the spread of an infectious disease.

"It's my roommate," Gaila said, relief evident in her tone when he responded to her hail. "She hurt her ankle playing probe-ball this afternoon and it's starting to swell." Her relaxed expression made clear that the injury was more annoying than serious. "If we go to the clinic, we'll be there all night—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know the story," McCoy interrupted, with a promise to be there within thirty minutes.

He made it with three minutes to spare. Gaila was waiting for him at the door to her dorm room, drawing him inside and introducing him to a gorgeous brown-skinned woman who sat with her right leg propped on the kitchen table, a cold pack covering her ankle. "Nyota Uhura say hello to Leonard McCoy, cadet, surgeon and all-around good guy.

Uhura's expression could best be described as pissed off. "Gaila, for God's sake, I only sprained my ankle. You didn't have to call a doctor to come all the way over here on his day off." She shot a glance at McCoy as if daring him to deny the fact.

Gaila didn't seem the least bit chastised. "Your ankle's almost the size of a grapefruit. How do you know it isn't broken?"

"I've sprained my ankle before. I know what it feels like and it's not broken." Even though Uhura's words were angry, her voice was light with a melodic quality that McCoy could listen to all day and, despite him natural grumpiness, he found himself smiling.

"You don't know that," Gaila replied, looking at McCoy meaningfully for assistance. "And anyway, it's not going to get better on its own."

McCoy softly cleared his throat before stepping forward. "As long as I'm here, why don't I take a quick look at it?"

Uhura leaned her head back and sighed. "Well, I guess since Gaila dragged you all the way over here, I might as well let you see what you can do." She pointed dramatically at her ankle. "Have at it, Doctor."

Repressing a smile at the theatrics, he pulled a scanner from his medikit and delicately removed the ice wrap from her leg. The joint was definitely swollen. A quick scan revealed severely strained ligaments but no broken bones, facts he reported to Uhura.

"You did all of the right things," he assured her. "RICE – rest, ice, compression, elevation – is still the best initial treatment. I can do a little repair work on those ligaments now, but you'll need to come into the clinic tomorrow – I don't have the right equipment with me and the treatment works better once the swelling's gone down."

He plucked another instrument from his kit, sat in a chair across from Uhura, and gently placed her foot on his thigh. She hissed at the movement, causing him to frown.

"What are you taking for pain?"

"Basic analgesic – what's available at the cadet store."

That wouldn't do the trick. "I'll leave you with something stronger. Now keep your leg as still as possible." For a few minutes, he focused entirely on her ankle, making sure the healing beam hit exactly the right spot on her skin and checking the results on his tricorder. Once he was satisfied, he looked up briefly. "So how did this happen?"

"A bunch of us were playing a pickup game of probe-ball. Do you play?"

"Can't say that I do." McCoy knew that probe-ball, somewhat of a cross between paint-ball and flag football, was popular with the young cadets. From a medical perspective, he was all in favor of it – the game provided great exercise and was less dangerous than most of the physical activities in which cadets routinely engaged. He didn't play for the same reason he didn't play most sports – the risk of injuring his hands wasn't worth it. In high school, he'd played a little football and soccer because it was a great way to meet the girls. After that, he'd focused on academics and turned to running to stay fit.

Uhura was still talking. "I tripped over a rock or something on the field and landed a bit off. It didn't hurt, so I didn't think anything was wrong and kept playing. It was only when I got back here that it started to swell."

Given that she wasn't putting up any resistance to his ministrations, McCoy decided not to chastise her for not seeking medical care right away. He checked the tricorder again – he'd done all he could for the time being. He reached for the vial of plasticast and carefully sprayed it over the injured ankle. "This will keep the joint immobile tonight, so you don't do any further damage."

Once the sealant was in place, he gave her a long look. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Uhura and Gaila traded glances and his eyes flickered between them. "Might as well tell him," Gaila finally said.

Uhura pointedly glared at her roommate before turning back to McCoy with something between a tight smile and a frown. "I scraped the back of my thigh. Gaila cleaned and bandaged it," she added hastily. "Besides, I've already taken enough of your time."

Scrape could indicate anything from a small scratch to deep lacerations that would require suturing. "I'd like to see it – make sure it's nothing serious."

For a minute, McCoy thought Uhura was going to argue with him. Instead, she bit her lower lip and, with a huff of indignation, nodded and rose from the chair. It took her only a few seconds to realize that, with a severely sprained ankle, she couldn't simply stand and show him the damage. With Gaila's help and his, she was finally able to move to the bed and lie face down, arms crossed and propped on a pillow beneath her.

"Someone obviously paid attention during the first aid course," McCoy said approvingly as he removed the bandage and checked the wound. It was long – nearly 20 centimeters, jagged, and deep in places. "How'd you do this?" he asked adjusting his scanner.

"I slid to make a catch and scraped it on twigs or rocks or something."

His main concern was that dirt or debris remained in the wound and would become a source of infection, and he allowed the scanner to linger over the deep punctures. Sure enough, there were still a few tiny specs of dirt, virtually invisible to the naked eye. "You did an excellent job, Gaila. Still, I'd like to clean this again with an antiseptic and then close it."

After giving Uhura a local anesthetic, he set to work. The cleansing didn't take long and, within minutes he was sealing the wound. "When you come into the clinic tomorrow, I'll run a dermal regenerator over this – you won't even have a scar." He loaded another hypo. "I'm going to give you a broad spectrum antibiotic because that's all I have with me. Tomorrow, I'll switch you to something more specific."

Uhura groaned into the pillow. "I really made a mess of myself, didn't I?"

With most patients, this would have been the perfect moment for a smart comeback. For some reason, McCoy couldn't quite bring himself to say the words to Uhura. "In a day or so, you'll be good as new."

"See, Ny, calling him was the right thing to do. By the way, how's Jim doing?"

McCoy looked up from putting away his instruments. "Fine, I guess."

"You haven't seen him today?"

McCoy's raised an eyebrow. "No, why?"

Gaila shrugged. "Seeing as he got knocked in the head and was out like a light—"

"Whoa, slow down. What do you mean he was out like a light?"

She sighed. "Jim was at the game as well. One of the other players ran head-long into him; he seemed out of it for a few seconds. When he came to, he said he felt okay. A bunch of us told him he should quit and go to medical but, you know Jim, he wouldn't listen. He played until Uhura got hurt and we decided to call it a day. He said he'd see a doctor." She gave an apologetic shrug. "We assumed that'd be you."

"So Jim is knocked unconscious and no one thinks to get him medical attention?"

Gaila seemed to recoil at the growl in his voice. "He said he was fine," she replied with a tough of defiance, "and he seemed to shake it right off. Heck, he even scored a goal after that."

"And he did promise to get checked out," Uhura added.

"And you believed him?" McCoy countered with more disbelief than anger. From their description, it sounded as if Jim had sustained a minor concussion, and it wasn't common for people to appear perfectly normal after such an incident. But, any period of unconsciousness could indicate more serious injury and even a minor head injury needed medical evaluation. Given Jim's physician-phobia, McCoy had little confidence that he'd kept his promise in that regard. It was possible that he'd gone to the clinic – he'd check to be sure – but unlikely. Which meant . . . dammit to hell. Suddenly, McCoy was in a hurry to get out of there.

After obtaining a promise from Uhura that she'd report to sickcall the next morning and one from Gaila that she'd make it happen, McCoy quickly took his leave, heading straight for Kirk's dorm. No one was there. He tried Jim's personal comm and got no answer. Shit, where was he?

There were times to call in favors and this was one of them. A couple of months ago, he'd quietly treated one of the cadets in the security section for an STD. He placed a quick call. "I need to find Cadet James Kirk right now. I think he may be injured."

The cadet called back less than a minute later. "He's in Bridge sim room 3."


	29. Medical Prerogatives

"Just how stupid can you be?" McCoy stood inside the doors of the bridge simulation room, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

The simulation rooms, or "sim" rooms, as they were called, were full-sized, realistic mockups of a starship's key areas – bridge, engineering, weapons bays – even the medical bay. During the day, the rooms were used to train cadets in the finer points of operating a starship. After hours, cadets could book them for extra practice, and this was especially common for cadets about to undergo a major practical exam.

Seated in the command chair, Jim swung around at the sound of his voice. "Bones, what are you doing here?" he asked innocently, eyes widening slightly.

McCoy immediately noticed that Jim seemed to be having trouble focusing and wasn't about to buy the innocent routine. "The better question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

"I've got my bridge qual first thing tomorrow morning. Gotta double check that I have the firing sequences down."

McCoy shrugged off the explanation. "I heard about what happened in the probe-ball game today. You were knocked unconscious, for God's sake."

Jim looked evasive. "It was nothing. I just got smacked in the head. I got right back up and kept playing – even scored a goal," he added with a touch of pride.

"Add that to the list of dumbest things you've ever done," McCoy growled in response. "Have you been vomiting?"

"No." Jim's expression was pained. 

"Any ringing in your ears? Blurred vision? Dizziness?"

"No, no, and no. I'm fine. Now get out of here; I've only got another 30 minutes of sim time and I can't afford to waste any of it."

McCoy wasn't sure whether to believe him regarding the symptoms. Jim was a reluctant patient on his good days; with an important test coming up, he wasn't likely to admit to anything that might keep him from completing it.

McCoy shook his head sternly. "Sorry, Jim. I'm not going anywhere until I've examined you and made sure you're fine."

Jim cocked his head in defiance. "Then I guess you'll be here awhile."

McCoy closed the distance to the command chair in a few steps and unceremoniously grabbed Jim's chin, staring into his eyes. "Fine, my ass. Your pupils are dilated and you're obviously having trouble focusing." With a pointed sigh, he reached into his medikit, pulled out his scanner and aimed it in the direction of Jim's head.

To his surprise, Jim immediately batted it away, the movement almost causing him to fall out of the chair.

McCoy picked the scanner off the floor and faced Jim, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. "Jim, you're showing all of the signs of a concussion, which means you need a medical evaluation to see how much damage you've done to that thick skull of yours. Now I can examine you here, at the clinic or even in your dorm room if you insist. But I am going to examine you."

"Bones, I told you that my bridge qual is tomorrow." Jim's voice had taken on the whining, begging tone that McCoy recognized from the times in the past when he'd tried to put off medical attention. "If I don't pass, I'll be booted out of the command track. And if I don't memorize the firing sequences for phasers and photon torpedoes, the process for going to . . . going to . . . dammit, will you for God's sake get out of there and stop distracting me."

McCoy snorted in disgust. "You can't even remember what you're supposed to be doing. Concussions will do that; they affect your memory. What you need is to rest and clear that head of yours, not run through firing sequences or whatever the hell you're trying to do."

Jim looked past him. "Leave me alone."

"Jim," he said in a measured tone, "I wasn't kidding about the possibility of brain damage. You need to be evaluated for concussion; the fact that you were unconscious means your condition could be more serious than you think. If you don't come with me right now, I promise you won't like the consequences. Am I making myself clear?"

"Come on, I'm almost finished. Just thirty minutes more." Pleading.

Would and examination now versus thirty minutes from now make a difference from a medical perspective? Probably not, but McCoy couldn't say for sure. More importantly, it was time that Jim started to understand the potential consequences of not cooperating with medical personnel. McCoy might let him slide every now and then; other Starfleet doctors, including Jim's future CMOs, were unlikely to be so accommodating. "Now," he reiterated.

Jim turned away and punched several buttons on the command chair console. "Computer, resume simulation. Prepare to launch phasers."

"Jim, I'm telling you one last time that you need to get checked out. Now, are you coming with me not?"

"Phasers ready," the inanimate computer voice said in the background.

Jim focused on the viewing screen, blinking rapidly as if trying to focus. "Lock in fire control coordinates."

"Incorrect," the computer responded.

"Shit," Jim mumbled. "What comes next? Prepare, lock-in, set . . . computer, what comes next in the sequence?"

The disembodied voice replied immediately. "You must check with fire control to ensure all phasers are on-line."

Jim pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. "Shit!"

"That is not a proper command."

McCoy tried one last time. "Jim, I'm warning you. You're leaving me no choice—"

"Dammit, Bones, go away!"

McCoy hesitated. If Jim had been honest about his lack of symptoms, he didn't _think_ Jim was suffering from more than a mild concussion. Of course, his opinion based on a brief visual check was no substitute for a proper examination. At the moment, however, his hands were tied. He couldn't forcibly remove Jim from the sim room and, given what he suspected was a relatively minor condition, didn't want to call security.

His best option at this point would be best for Jim the patient and Jim the future Starfleet officer. It was also one he didn't like and one that Jim definitely wouldn't like.

He was beyond arguing. "Okay, Jim. Finish up here and then come see me in the clinic. And, if I don't see you within the next two hours," he warned, "I'll send security to find you."

Jim nodded absently, his attention already focused on the next step of the simulation.

McCoy wasn't surprised when, two hours later, a clearly angry and somewhat disheveled Jim burst into the clinic exam room where he was concluding his examination of a post-surgical patient.

"Bones," Jim demanded, hands on his hips, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

McCoy's patient, the elderly and somewhat frail wife of a retired admiral, looked up with alarm. "What in the world. . . .?"

McCoy turned around and gave Jim his sternest look. "Outside. Now." After assuring his patient that he didn't have psychotics as friends and that he'd send in a nurse to finish up the visit, he stepped into a hall where a seething Jim was waiting for him.

Jim was almost twitching with impatience. "I asked you a fucking question."

"Not here." He grabbed Jim by the arm and propelled him into the nearest empty exam room. Inside, he voice locked the door. "If you ever again walk in on me when I'm examining a patient, I'll make sure your next physical includes procedures that have yet to be invented." McCoy's voice was icy.

Jim swallowed hard and was silent for a moment, which, McCoy realized, was as close to an apology as he was likely to get at this juncture.

"You got my bridge qual canceled," Jim said accusingly. "They said it was for medical reasons." He almost spat out the words.

McCoy sucked in a breath. _Here we go._ "Yes, Jim, I did."

"What the fuck did you do that for?"

McCoy refused to match Jim's irate demeanor or foul language. One of them had to remain professional. "Because, in my professional opinion, you aren't in any condition to participate."

Jim shook his head in defiance. "I'm ready for the exam."

McCoy shook his head. "I don't think so; not from the looks of things when I left you and not from the looks of things now."

Jim leaned back against the wall, eyes briefly closing. "There's nothing wrong with me that a good night's sleep won't cure."

"You were hit in the head and knocked unconscious. You're unsteady on your feet and your pupils still aren't focusing. That means you almost certainly have a concussion," he said slowly, enunciating each word for emphasis. "Until you're evaluated, I can't determine how serious it is and, until I do, I can't let you go ahead with tomorrow's practical. Not to mention that, if you try to do the qual with a concussion, you'll screw it up and probably your Starfleet career as well. I'm trying to help you avoid that."

"You're not my goddamn mother!" Jim interrupted, eyes blinking rapidly. "You had no right."

"I'm a Starfleet doctor and you're a Starfleet cadet. That gives me every right."

"Pulling rank on me, huh? Damn you, McCoy." Jim's quiet voice didn't conceal the undercurrent of anger and indignation.

McCoy kept his face impassive. "Pulling common sense on you, kid." He might have "won" the battle but took no pleasure in doing so. "Now, that you're here, are you going to let me examine you or do you want me to find you another doctor?"

Jim's eyes met his. "I want you to get the hell out of this room."

McCoy sighed. He knew Jim had been putting in incredible hours in recent weeks. The end of third year was do or die time for the command cadets, and McCoy suspected that some of Jim's irascibility was a combination of fatigue and stress as much as the concussion. Maybe it was better to get someone else involved, at least until Jim had calmed down a bit. "Fine. I'll send in Dr. Brumbaugh, the on-call neurologist." He turned at the door. "And don't even think of leaving until she checks you."


	30. Laying Down the Law

McCoy wasn't surprised when, two hours later, a clearly angry and somewhat disheveled Jim burst into the clinic exam room where he was concluding his examination of a post-surgical patient.

"Bones, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

McCoy's patient, the elderly and somewhat frail wife of a retired admiral, looked up with alarm. "What in the world. . . .?"

McCoy turned around and gave Jim his sternest look. "Outside. Now." After assuring his patient that he didn't have psychotics as friends and that he'd send in a nurse to finish up the visit, he stepped into a hall where a seething Jim was waiting for him.

Jim was almost twitching with impatience. "I asked you a fucking question."

"Not here." He grabbed Jim by the arm and propelled him into the nearest empty exam room. Inside, he voice locked the door. "If you ever again walk in on me when I'm examining a patient, I'll make sure your next physical includes procedures that have yet to be invented." McCoy's voice was icy.

Jim swallowed hard and was silent for a moment, which, McCoy realized, was as close to an apology as he was likely to get at this juncture.

"You got my bridge qual canceled," Jim said accusingly.

He sucked in a breath. _Here we go._ "Yes, I did."

"What the fuck did you do that for?"

McCoy refused to match Jim's irate demeanor or foul language. One of them had to remain professional. "Because, in my medical opinion, you aren't in any condition to participate."

"I'm ready for the exam."

McCoy shook his head. "I don't think so; not from the looks of things when I left you and not from the looks of things now."

Jim leaned back against the wall, eyes briefly closing. "There's nothing wrong with me that a good night's sleep won't cure."

"You were hit in the head and knocked unconscious. That means you almost certainly have a concussion," he said slowly, enunciating each word for emphasis. "Until you're evaluated, I can't determine how serious it is and, until I do, I can't let you go ahead with tomorrow's practical. Not to mention that, if you try to do the qual with a concussion, you'll screw it up and probably your Starfleet career as well."

"You're not my goddamn mother!" Jim interrupted, eyes blinking rapidly. "You had no right."

"I'm a Starfleet doctor and you're a Starfleet cadet. That gives me every right."

"Pulling rank on me, huh? Damn you, McCoy." Jim's quiet voice didn't conceal the undercurrent of anger and indignation.

McCoy kept his face impassive. He might have "won" the battle but took no pleasure in doing so. "Pulling common sense on you, kid. Now, are you going to let me examine you or do you want another doctor?"

Jim's eyes met his. "I want you to get the hell out of this room."

McCoy sighed. He knew Jim had been putting in incredible hours in recent weeks. The end of third year was do or die time for the command cadets and McCoy suspected that some of Jim's irascibility was a direct result of fatigue and stress. Maybe it was better to get someone else involved, at least until Jim had calmed down a bit. "Fine. I'll send in Dr. Brumbaugh." He turned at the door. "And don't even think of leaving until she checks you."

McCoy mentally chuckled at the sight of an obviously flustered Dr. Liz Brumbaugh walking toward him. He'd won the bet with himself that she'd be at his door complaining about Jim in less than twenty minutes. It had taken only fourteen.

"Leonard, he barely cooperated with the exam and refuses to be admitted. He has a grade 2 concussion; he needs craniotherapy . . ."

He sighed in resignation. "I know."

"He said you've taken care of him since he joined Starfleet. Is he always like this?" There was obvious exasperation in her tone.

McCoy didn't try to repress a tight smile. "Worse. Where'd you leave it with him?"

"He was demanding to see you."

He slowly rose to his feet and absently ran a hand through his hair, giving her a sardonic smile. "Okay. Let's see if I can tame the beast."

Two minutes later, he confronted a still-angry Jim, sitting on the edge of the biobed and eying the door as if ready to escape at any moment.

McCoy crossed his arms and eyed Jim carefully. "I understand you and Dr. Brumbaugh didn't exactly see eye to eye."

"I thought you were my doctor," he replied sullenly.

"What's this about your refusing to be admitted?"

"Dammit, Bones, there's nothing seriously wrong with me – Dr. Whatshername said so herself. There's no reason I can't do the bridge qual tomorrow."

McCoy shook his head. Inwardly he cringed with having to repeat himself. Either Jim was being obstinate or, worse, he was having some memory issues.

"They won't let you do the qual if you're medically 'down,' and I'm not giving you an 'up' chit until you finish your treatment and show no residual signs of concussion. Besides, if you try that qual with a grade 2 concussion, there's no way you'll pass."

"You don't know that."

McCoy pointed to his medical insignia. "Yeah, I do. It's what they pay me for."

Jim stared at him sullenly for a minute. "Shit, Bones, it's not fair."

"I'm not saying you can't ever do it," he replied, a bit more gently. "Just not tomorrow."

"Then I'm out of here." He stood up from the table, stumbling a bit as he did so, grabbed his jacket, and started to leave.

McCoy stopped him with his voice. "Not so fast."

Jim paused at the door. "You can't keep me here."

"Actually, I can." He waited patiently until Jim turned around. "Jim, you're not at Riverside General anymore. You can't simply refuse medical treatment or walk out the door of the hospital whenever you feel like it. This is Starfleet and Starfleet physicians are responsible for your health."

"Since when did you start spouting the party line?" he asked sarcastically.

"It's not about the party line, Jim. It's about doing what's best for my patient, who at the moment happens to be you."

"Even if I don't want your help?"

"Even if you don't want my help," he mimicked back. "It's not just me and it's not just here at the Academy. For Christ's sake, you know that when you're on a starship you'll have a CMO – Chief Medical Officer. His word on medical matters is law. If the CMO says you don't fly or don't go on a landing party, that's the end of it. The CMO can even declare the Captain medically unfit."

Jim glared at him. "I took the goddamn course. I know the rules and you're not my goddamn CMO. Probably never will be."

"No," he said, walking a tightrope of verbal control. "But as I told you earlier, I _am_ a Starfleet doctor and you're a Starfleet cadet. It's my job to make sure you don't do something stupid to yourself."

"I don't need a fucking nursemaid."

"Dammit, Jim, you have a concussion which means you _do_ need medical care! You can accept it from me, from Dr. Brumbaugh, or whomever else you choose. But you won't be medically cleared until you've completed the necessary treatment."

"That's intimidation," Jim replied sullenly, frowning a bit. The words were harsh but McCoy could sense Jim's heart wasn't in it.

He seized on the subtle change in Jim's demeanor to soften his own tone. "It's for your own good. And it's only for a couple of hours. If we get started right now, you'll spend tonight in your own bed. Now, do you want me to get Dr. Brumbaugh or some other doctor for you to bitch at?"

Jim seemed to back down a bit. "I'd rather bitch at you," he replied sheepishly.

Both eyebrows lifted. "Gee, thanks." He motioned Jim back to the bed. "Now, if you cooperate, you'll be ready for your qual in less than a week. If you fight me every step of the way, it'll be another two weeks before I clear you."

"Bastard."

After three years, McCoy knew Jim's moods better than the back of his hand. Jim was only moderately pissed; McCoy could deal with that and decided to reply in kind. "Look, if the fate of the universe depended on doing your qual tomorrow, I might let things slide. But it doesn't." He tried to inject a bit of levity into his tone. "So let me do my job and fix that crazy head of yours."

Jim shrugged in resignation. "Like I have much choice."

Inwardly, McCoy smiled at the submission in Jim's voice as he stole another glance at the above-bed monitors and pulled together the equipment he'd need. He turned back to the bed, hypo in hand.

Jim glared at the instrument. "Come on, Bones. Can't you do anything without hypo-ing me?"

McCoy narrowed his eyebrows. "What is it with you and hypos?"

"I . . . just don't like them."

McCoy wondered if Jim's aversion to hypos wasn't somehow connected to his childhood visits to the hospital. Could it be that every time the kid saw one of these it took him back to . . . the unpleasant parts of his past?

"Well, I _can_ treat you without using this; it'll just take longer. I _thought_ you wanted out of here."

"Go ahead, it's okay." Despite the verbal permission, Jim's eyes remained wary.

McCoy still paused. "Jim, I'm a doctor. I don't want to make your treatment worse than the disease."

"Look, I know that hypos are work best and that's why you use them. That doesn't mean I have to like them." His blue eyes flashed their permission. "Just do it already."

McCoy reached down and pressed the instrument to Jim's neck, this time making an effort to be more gentle than usual.

* * *

The persistent buzzing on the dorm's comms system indicated his visitor was either desperate or extremely anxious. Seeing the visitor was Jim, McCoy decided on the latter. He verbally unlocked the door.

Jim burst into the room, dressed in civvies and obviously excited. "Come on, Bones," he said engagingly, blue eyes dancing, "let's go out."

McCoy frowned and pointed to the computer screen where he'd been dictating surgical notes. "Paperwork." And he needed to study; he was only three days away from his Basic Navigation practical.

Jim shook off his comments. "Not tonight. We're going to celebrate." He paused, as if for dramatic effect. "Wherever you want to go – my treat."

Jim was offering to pay? That would be a first and there could be only one reason for it. "You passed your bridge qual," he said with a smile.

"Passed? I not only passed, I earned the highest score in the last two years."

McCoy's eyes widened. The bridge qual was considered one of the toughest practicals. Many cadets didn't even pass on their first attempt, which was one of the reasons McCoy hadn't wanted to let Jim attempt it while concussed. That was over a week and several craniotherapy treatments ago. He'd cleared Jim medically the day before yesterday but hadn't realized he'd already completed the bridge qualification. For Jim not only to pass, but to earn such a high score . . .

"Congratulations," he said warmly.

"So, ready to go?" Jim asked impatiently.

He shook his head in resignation. "Sorry, Jim. I really do need to dictate these surgical notes and progress updates, or the Chief of Surgery will have my hide."

"Bones, it's just a couple of hours. I promise to bring you back before you turn into a pumpkin."

"If I drink for a couple of hours, I'll be worse off than a pumpkin."

Jim frowned. "Okay. Never mind." He started to back out of the room.

Damn. This was more than just a trip to the local watering hole. Jim had every reason to celebrate and, of all the people at the Academy, wanted to celebrate with him. McCoy knew that, if he didn't go, two things would happen, both of them bad. First, Jim would likely take McCoy's refusal as a rejection of friendship. Second, he would get smashed and probably get into a fight. The last thing McCoy wanted to do tonight was more kitchen table surgery.

McCoy also realized that Jim's offer was as close as he'd ever come to thanking him for not letting him take the bridge qual with a concussion. And, of course, McCoy would never say, "I told you so." The fact that Jim had excelled was thanks enough.

Hell, the charting could wait. "Give me a minute, kid. Let me find something decent to wear."


	31. Perchance to Lead

McCoy – Year 3

There were three major practicals required of all command cadets – the Mock POW course, the landing party practical in which he was now engaged, and the Kobayashi Maru, which he'd take in a few weeks. Jim had successfully completed the POW course – the talk with Pike had gone a long way toward reassuring him that his performance had been better than he'd thought. Still, Jim couldn't shake the feeling that he could have done better, held out longer. Getting through the POW course had been primarily a question of endurance; the landing party practical demanded leadership. It was a chance to put into practice much of the theory and coursework of the past three years.

As with the other practicals, there were horror stories among the cadets of how difficult it was and how they tried to make you fail, how it was a no-win scenario. Jim didn't buy it. No-win scenarios were for losers, and Jim didn't plan on losing.

Jim's landing party assignment seemed simple enough – he and his team were to beam down to a newly discovered planet and make first contact with the locals, who, based on preliminary scouting reports, were presumed friendly. A simple "meet and greet," the cadets called it. Of course, as they'd been taught, even simple missions could quickly go haywire and the Starfleet instructors would undoubtedly make sure that this practical mimicked that unpleasant reality.

The pre-mission briefings were over, and Jim and his team now stood on the transporter pad, ready for the start of the exercise. Jim didn't dare look at Bones, who appeared ready to puke his guts out at the thought of the beam locking onto him. The irony was that Bones wasn't even supposed to be part of this practical. It was only when he doctor originally assigned to the mission had been injured in a training accident the day before and couldn't participate that the Academy had randomly assigned Bones to fill his place.

Jim had been excited – this would be a rare opportunity when he and Bones could actually work together. For his part, Bones shrugged the whole thing aside.

"These landing party practicals are for you command types," he said. "Doctors like me are just along for the ride."

Joining Jim on this mission, in addition to McCoy, were fellow third-years John Chao, a command track cadet with whom Jim had a passing acquaintance and who was serving as the first officer for the mission; Dave Stanwick, a drinking buddy from the security section; and Paula Graves, the mission's science officer, who was already considered a standout in her field. This practical was a first for all of them. While each command cadet got only one chance to serve as landing party leader, command cadets might be called upon to serve as an XO or tactical officer, just as Chao was doing for this exercise.

"All hands ready?" he asked, making his tone sound confident despite a bit of inner apprehension. He was greeted with a series of affirmative replies. "Energize," he instructed the transporter chief with a barely contained smile and, seconds later, they were caught up in the transporter beam.

People described the disorientation of a transporter in different ways – falling, gliding, tumbling through space – and some, like Bones, used more colorful language – something about scrambling was meant for goddamned eggs not molecules and he was fucking sure that one of these days his butt would end up where his head was supposed to be. Before Jim could fully relive the memory, he felt the slight jolt that indicated the transporter beam had released him. The transporter was real; however, their location was not some exotic new planet but rather a training base somewhere on Earth designed to look like an unfamiliar location.

As soon as the disorientation faded, he glanced around, pleased to see that the entire landing party had made it safely. Jim knew that the instructors would throw in more than a few curves during the scenario and was thankful that a mock transporter accident wasn't one of them. Less heartening was the fact that it was immediately apparent they had not landed on the immediate outskirts of the city as planned. Based on the pre-mission briefing, they should be seeing the angular buildings of the capital city. Jim looked around. There were no buildings, no city or other signs of civilization. He took a deep breath. He had no idea where they were.

The terrain looked like parts of the American south he'd visited – mostly green with isolated clumps of trees and bushes. There were, he noted automatically, a handful of natural and manmade barriers such as a fence a dozen meters to the east, a small hill a few hundred meters due south, and a few piles of rocks and debris scattered in the distance. The sky was overcast, the temperature cool but tolerable and, thankfully, it was daylight.

"Chao!" He turned on his first officer who was responsible for mission logistics. "This isn't where we were supposed to land. Are we at least on the right planet?"

Chao's tricorder was already humming. "Sir, the tricorder indicates that we are indeed on Newland, approximately 15 kilometers from our intended destination."

Jim couldn't repress a smile. This might be only a simulation but he still loved being referred to as "sir."

"It appears," Chao continued, "that magnetic distortion interfered with the transporter."

In other words, Jim thought to himself, the instructors had introduced the first variable. No worries, he could deal with this. "Graves." He turned to the science officer. "Any life signs in the vicinity?"

Graves had been fiddling with her tricorder with increasing irritation. "Sir, the distortion is interfering with tricorder readings." She shook her head. "It looks clear for about a kilometer but, further out, there's too much interference to be sure."

"Where the hell are we?" Bones asked the question on everyone's mind. For now, the doctor didn't have much to do. It was his responsibility to ensure there were no injuries on transport, double check atmospheric conditions and potential airborne diseases as well as evaluate the edibility of indigenous plant life. Knowing Bones' attention to detail, Jim was sure it had all been done and that Bones would already have reported any anomalies. While medical tricorders could be used for scanning for life signs, they were intended primarily to treat and diagnose injury, and their precision at long distances was clearly inferior to the instruments the science officer carried.

He gave Bones an annoyed glance. "That's what we're trying to figure out." He opened his communicator. "Kirk to _Trafalgar_." The hail was met with silence. He tried several more times without success, as did Stanwick. Of course communicators wouldn't work, Jim told himself – that would have been too easy.

"Okay, we don't have comms with the ship. Chao, Stanwick, keep checking as we move along – we may just be in a dead spot."

As the men acknowledged his command, Kirk took a deep breath to orient himself, trying to stay focused. In the classroom, it had all seemed so easy. Now that he was actually leading a landing party – and one that was kilometers away from its intended destination with no shore-to-ship comms capabilities. This was exactly where he wanted to be – in charge. On this practical, the decisions were his, and his evaluation – possibly his Starfleet future – depended on how well he performed. The other members of his team watched him expectantly, awaiting his orders.

"Graves," he asked, "will our phasers work?"

"They should, sir. It appears that the communicators are being affected by seismic interference, which should have no impact on weapons. And our tricorders are functioning normally. However, we may wish to conduct a test fire to be certain."

Jim shook his head. "We could be under observation and firing a weapon could be perceived as hostile." He turned to Bones. "Bones, does your medical equipment work?"

Bones nodded. "Everything seems to be working normally."

"Good. Suggestions, people?"

Stanwick spoke up first. "We should make our way to the planned beam down point. That's where our hosts will be and, hopefully, our communicators will work or they'll have equipment that we can use to contact the ship."

"I agree," Graves chimed in. "Eventually, when we don't check in, _Trafalgar_ will start looking for us and the first place they'll start will be the expected touchdown point. The closer to it we are, the more likely they are to find us."

Of course, in the simulation, no one would actually be looking for them. But cadets were told that they needed to treat all simulations as the real thing – their scores depended on it – and Jim intended to do just that.

"I don't know, Jim." McCoy interrupted his thoughts. "We don't know what's between here and there. We could be walking into God knows what, possibly without phasers that work and definitely without the ability to contact the ship for help."

"That's a fair point, Bones." He turned to the others. "Chao, Graves, Stanwick, spread out and take some readings. I want to know what's around us and the most direct and safest route to the nearest signs of civilization. And stay within earshot of this location – I don't want anyone getting too far away from the group until we have a better sense of what we're dealing with."

As the team started to move away, he turned to McCoy. "Bones, we may be here a while and, if we are, we're going to need food and water. See what you can find."

"Sure, Jim." He unslung his tricorder from his shoulder. "You really think we should move? And go where? Isn't it better to stay in one place so it's easier for the ship to find us?" 

"We can't stay here, Bones. It's not protected and, besides, our mission is to make first contact." He swept his arm expansively. "I don't see any locals here."

"It might have helped if they'd actually beamed us anywhere close to where we were supposed to be."

"This sort of thing happens on real missions. Sometimes, there's interference with the transporters—"

"And one of these times, there's going to be interference with our molecules. We won't just end up in the wrong damn place, we'll end up in little pieces scattered throughout the entire universe, unable to be put back into any semblance of a human being. . ."

Jim was no longer listening to Bones' ranting. Something else caught his attention – the distinctive whine that he knew only too well from the many Academy combat courses.

"Shut up, Bones. Listen." The whine was increasing in intensity meaning the weapon was headed their way. "Sounds like weapons fire."

McCoy was also glancing skyward. "What in the hell? I thought the natives were supposed to be friendly!"

The shrill pitch of the whine was increasing in intensity.

"Fuck! Incoming!" Jim called out. "Take cover!" Before the last word was out of his mouth, he grabbed McCoy with one hand and pushed them both toward the nearest shelter, a small row of thick brush about a meter high. He stayed down, making himself as small and invisible a target as possible. A second later, the first volley hit about a dozen meters in front of them, shaking the ground and sending a cloud of debris into the air.

The instant the debris settled, he looked around. As the team commander, it was his job to make sure everyone on the team was safe. Even though he couldn't see them and their communicators were useless, he could still make verbal contact. McCoy was next to him and uninjured.

"Graves! Graves!"

"Here," she called. The voice came from about twenty meters behind and to his left. "All okay."

He called out next for Stanwick and was rewarded with another reply that indicated he too was safe and uninjured.

"Chao!"

There was no response. "Chao! Chao? Where are you? Are you injured?"

Just as he started to shout again, he heard the whine signaling that more rounds were headed his way. Instinctively, he ducked back down.

"What the hell's going on?" Bones asked beside him.

"Stay down, dammit. Someone's firing proton missiles in our direction. Stanwick and Graves are okay. But Chao hasn't responded; we need to figure out where he is."

McCoy pulled out his tricorder. "Let me check." He took readings, frowned, adjusted the machine and his frown deepened. "I'm not getting any readings but there's a lot of interference. He could be out there and I'm just not seeing it."

This time the weapon hit far to their rear. Jim called out to both Graves and Stanwick – neither could see Chao nor did their calls produce any replies. Shit.

"The pre-mission briefings said this was supposed to be a simple meet and greet," Bones observed drily. "This is one hell of a way to say 'howdy.'"

"Well, the briefings obviously were wrong. It happens."

"Shouldn't we fire back?"

JIm tried to dredge up what they'd been told in terms of weapons capabilities of the natives, as well as what he'd memorized on rules of engagement and the Prime Directive.

"The rules of engagement say we can't fire weapons unless we're in immediate danger of death or serious injury," Jim started.

"_I_ feel in danger of death and serious injury. Not sure about you."

Jim gave him an annoyed look. "And," he continued as if Bones hadn't spoken, only then if we can conclusively determine the enemy's identity and that the enemy is specifically targeting us as Starfleet personnel. Not to mention that the Prime Directive prohibits us from using technology beyond what the local population already has."

"So we have to sit here and take it?" McCoy asked with more than a trace of sarcasm.

"At the moment, we don't have much choice." Jim felt his heart rate increase and his breathing quicken. He forced himself to take a deep breath and blow it out slowly – he'd wanted to be in the command track. The anxiety was coupled with a sense of exhilaration – this is what it was all about.

Another round landed only a few meters in front of him and, once again, he was showered with dirt, dust, and debris. Two more rounds landed in quick succession, the second one causing the ground beneath him to shake.

"What do we do now?" McCoy asked.

"Right now, I need to get to the others but," he glanced skyward as another missile flew over their position, "it's pretty damn impossible while they're constantly shooting at us." The attack forced him to keep his head and body close to the ground and the accumulating debris made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of his face. The mortars might not be real but the simulation certainly made it feel just like a real battle.

"We're sitting ducks here," McCoy responded somewhat breathlessly.

"Here, we have some protection," he explained somewhat impatiently. "If we move, we're exposing ourselves to direct fire. Not to mention that we have no idea who the hell's shooting at us or even if they're shooting at _us_."

Another round hit a few meters away, kicking up a new layer of flying shrapnel and debris.

McCoy tucked himself closer to the ground. "If they're not shooting at us, then who the hell _are_ they shooting at?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's possible that there's a nearby target and we just happen to be in the line of fire. It's hard to say right now. In any event, we can't fire back. Even if the rules of engagement allowed it, there aren't any life signs within a kilometer, and that's well beyond our phaser range."

He tried his communicator again; there was still no response. For now, they were defenseless, under attack, and on their own.


	32. The Best Laid Plans

There was the shriek of another mortar round followed by the cry behind Jim and to his left. One of his people had been hit. _Goddamn it to hell!_

He took some comfort in knowing that whoever it was probably wasn't actually injured. The simulation of casualties during practicals was a common, if fairly complex, technical process. In this case, Jim knew from the briefings they'd received, a mock round would actually hit someone with enough force to sting like hell – hence, the scream. The theory was that injuries hurt in real life and cadets should understand that the real thing was a hundred times worse than what they would experience here. The injured cadet's implant would indicate to the medical officer the nature of the simulated injury, and the doctor and the rest of the landing party were expected to treat the cadet like an actual casualty.

These thoughts passed through his mind in an instant. "Someone's been hit. Bones!" he shouted, but McCoy was already on his feet.

"Sounds like Stanwick!" Bones said, taking off in the direction of the cry of pain.

Jim scrambled to follow him, despite the telltale whine of yet another incoming weapon and glanced back as it crushed the ground only a few meters from the position he and Bones had just occupied, sending shrapnel flying toward him.

There was a stinging sensation in the back of his legs, and he pushed himself to run faster toward Stanwick and shelter. He and Bones quickly covered the remaining twenty meters and dove into the ground next to the injured man. _And Bones didn't think he'd ever need that damn combat course_, Jim thought to himself with a hint of amusement. The three men huddled behind a small hedgerow, which provided scant protection. No wonder the man had been hit.

"Stanwick, you okay?" Jim asked, checking quickly to see whether Stanwick's injury was real or simulated, relieved to see no obvious wounds.

"I'll live," Stanwick replied in a voice that sounded more annoyed than strained.

Bones had his scanner out. Jim knew better than to ask how bad it was. Bones would tell him as soon as there was something to tell. Jim needed to focus on getting them out of this mess. He needed to figure out where the other two members of the landing party were. What he'd give for a working communicator.

"Graves!" The science officer shouted back that she was under cover and uninjured. "Get over here!" He then called for Chao who, again didn't reply.

"If we continue to take fire," Jim said, once the team was assembled around him, "we're going to have to move to a more secure location. But I'd rather not leave until we find Chao."

Now that he was experiencing it for real, Jim realized how many things he needed to keep track of – people, mission, safety. Not to mention that it was hard to think straight when in the midst of a fucking mortar attack. And yet, he was flush with excitement. Real or simulated, leading this landing party was the best thing he'd yet done at the Academy.

A few seconds later, Graves pointed upward with her finger. "The rate of fire appears to be decreasing," she noted.

Jim tilted his head back. "You're right. Nothing's landed near us in more than a minute." As he spoke, he could hear dull thuds in the distance. "It sounds like the attack has swung to our north."

Bones looked up from working on Stanwick's arm. "Injury's not too bad," he reported. "Fractured ulna and shrapnel wounds. I've splinted the arm, but I need to be someplace . . ." he looked pointedly skyward, "safer, to set the break properly and clean out those wounds."

"Okay, Bones." Jim stole another quick glance – thank God this was a simulated injury and not a real one even if, for simulation purposes, they'd be treated the same. "We need to find Chao and get out of here while there's a lull in the attack." He turned to the others. "Graves, Stanwick, when was the last time you saw him?"

"He took off to my left when the firing started," Graves reported. "I haven't seen or heard from him since."

Stanwick indicated he also hadn't seen or heard Chao since the attack started.

"Graves, McCoy, scan for him again," Jim ordered. Graves and McCoy quickly checked their tricorders.

"No life signs," Graves said after a moment. "I've got good tracking for just over a kilometer – I don't think he could have made it further while we were under attack."

"I agree, Jim," McCoy added. "No life signs within tricorder range."

"Bones, what if he was KIA?" The instructors could also simulate deaths.

"If he were killed, the body would still be warm," Bones said. "We'd at least have an IR signature."

"He wouldn't show up on infrared if someone moved him out of range of our tricorders," Jim noted. "Just because our transporters don't work here, the same might not hold true for the locals. Chao could have been captured or killed and then transported away."

"Right under our noses?" Bones asked in surprise.

"We've been a little busy trying to dodge fire," he responded. "Okay, our first priority is to maintain security – make sure we don't get separated." He turned to Stanwick. The security officer might not be able to fire a weapon but he could give advice. "Stanwick, recommendations?"

Still seemingly annoyed at being saddled with a mock injury, Stanwick spoke up. "I agree that it's critical to stay together. One option is to stay here and search for Chao. The problem is that we have no idea where he is and, if we stay in the area, we're exposing ourselves to another assault – we have no idea when or from where the next attack will come."

"But," Graves interjected, "what if Chao got lost? This is where he'd return to find us."

"I'm not sure how he could have become lost," Stanwick countered. "He couldn't have gone too far and he does have a tricorder. And," he added, "we may well get killed waiting here."

Jim couldn't help but glance around, as if Chao would somehow magically reappear. "Well," he said, after a moment, "if he wandered off, he's more than a kilometer away or he'd show up on our tricorders. And, there's no shelter here – we're sitting ducks." It had now been several minutes since they'd taken incoming fire. He looked skyward. "Let's get the hell out of here before those bastards start shooting at us again."

"Jim!" It was McCoy's turn to protest. "We can't just abandon Chao. Aren't we at least going to look for him?"

"We have looked. You and Graves have both checked your tricorders. The only other option is a physical search, but we'd have an impossibly huge area to cover. It also means we'd have to separate and, right now, we need to stay together so that another one of us doesn't disappear. It makes more sense to find a way to contact the ship; they can search the whole planet. Besides, this place makes for a lousy defensive position, and we need to get Stanwick someplace where you can treat him properly."

Bones raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the barren landscape. "And where exactly do we go to do that?"

He turned to his science officer. "Graves, where'd the fire come from?"

"Enemy position is approximately ten kilometers to the southeast," she reported. "Weapons are standard proton missiles. I'm still not able to get a lock on the number or identity of the enemy force."

"Is their position reinforced?" Jim asked.

"Doesn't appear to be."

Stanwick pushed himself away from McCoy and leaned over her tricorder. "I agree. Mobile position." He made some adjustments to the tricorder.

Jim nodded. "That means lighter weapons but greater flexibility in terms of movement. Graves, where's the nearest shelter?"

She looked up after consulting her tricorder. "There's a cluster of small buildings approximately 1000 meters to the north."

"Let's head for that," he ordered. "We need to keep alert as we move and stay together in case the attacks resume." He glanced at Stanwick, whose injury would limit his ability to fire a weapon; better to use him as the navigator for now.

"Graves, take the point," he ordered. "Then Stanwick and McCoy. I'll bring up the rear. We'll go with a zebra formation," he added. This formation involved fast, jagged turns, and layered support fire.

"Jim," McCoy spoke up. "I still think we should look for Chao—"

"I get that," he replied impatiently. "But it's my responsibility and my decision is that we stay together as a group and find shelter before we all end up injured . . . or worse."

He surveyed the group. "Keep phasers ready but don't fire unless I give thie order. Understand?"

There was a chorus of "yes, sirs."

"Okay, ready to move out?"

After receiving nods of agreement from the others, Jim took a few steps forward and – _shit!_ – he couldn't stop himself from crying out at the pain the movement caused in his lower leg. He looked down and saw a small, neat hole in the fabric of his uniform covering his right calf. Looked like a shrapnel wound – he must have caught something when the missile had hit during his mad dash toward Stanwick. Why hadn't it hurt before now? Adrenaline, probably.

Bones, of course, missed nothing. "Jim, you're hurt. Let me take a look—"

He brushed off McCoy's hand. "Not now. It's just a scratch." It wasn't a serious injury and, if this were a real mission, there was no way he'd stop for a minor shrapnel wound. "We've got to get out of here while we have the chance. Graves, go!"

Bones frowned and seemed about to say something, then appeared to think better of it. When his turn came to move forward, did so without complaint.

A hundred meters later, Jim realized that leaving himself at the back of the group probably hadn't been the smartest move. If his injury worsened and affected his mobility, the others might not notice until too late. The only choice, he realized with chagrin, was to keep up no matter how much it hurt. And now that the adrenaline rush had worn off, it was starting to hurt like a sonofabitch.

"Keep going," he encouraged the others. "Anything on the tricorder?" he asked as he passed Graves.

"No Chao," the science officer reported succinctly.

"No sign of the enemy," Stanwick added.

Mindful that they could easily come under attack again, he urged the team forward as quickly as possible and, fifteen minutes later, the four regrouped under a cluster of deciduous trees.

"What's in front of us?" Jim asked.

Graves consulted her tricorder. "There are two buildings fifty meters ahead with adjacent water source. No signs of life forms in the vicinity."

"It could be a trap," Stanwick pointed out. "Or even a military base. The buildings could be rigged to alert if they're penetrated."

"I know," Jim replied. "Still, it's the only shelter within kilometers. We'll have to chance it." He nodded toward Stanwick's arm. "You need medical attention and we all need a place to regroup."

"And I need to take a look at your leg," Bones added pointedly.

"Not now, Bones." Seeing he was ready to argue, Jim relented a bit. "Once we find shelter, I promise you can have at me." He touched Graves' arm. "Come with me. We're going to scout out that building, make sure it's safe. McCoy, you and Stanwick wait here. If we don't contact you within fifteen minutes, make your way to the city and get help."

"Yes, sir," Stanwick responded.

Bones looked disapprovingly at his injured leg. "Jim, I don't think –"

"That's an order," he replied curtly and noted with satisfaction that Bones didn't challenge him. For now.

Less than thirty minutes later, the four remaining members of the landing party were resting in a small wooden outbuilding that looked as if it could once have housed farm equipment. Graves stood guard while the team munched on rations, drank water, and figured out their next course of action.

Jim was doing all of this from a prone position after he'd finally agreed to let Bones work on his leg. In real life, of course, Stanwick's fractured arm would have demanded Bones' attention first. However, Jim's injury was real – rather than a product of the simulation – which meant that triage rules that required the most seriously injured be treated first went out the window.

One of the medic's jobs was to determine whether a real injury sustained in training was sufficiently serious to justify stopping the practical. Jim hoped that Bones realized that he'd better be dying if he was going to put a stop to this.

He allowed some of his impatience to show through. "Come on, Bones, enough already."

"Flesh wound caused by flying shrapnel," the doctor reported curtly after a minute of scanning and probing. "Nicked a bit of the calf muscle."

"But I'm okay, right?" Jim asked hopefully.

"You'd be better in the ER where I could treat this properly."

Before Jim could protest and claim he was fine, Bones stopped him with a firm hand on his back. "But, you won't die if I treat you here. I'll clean it up and give you something for the pain. Other than it being a bit stiff and sore, you should be fine."

"Thanks," he grunted.

"If it continues to bother you, I want you to let me know."

Right. Jim nodded with no intention of complaining – unless he was unable to walk.

Once Bones had finished with him and Stanwick, Jim gathered his team around him.

"I don't want to stay here too long," he started. "Our position is vulnerable. I think we should head toward the touchdown point. That's our best chance of getting back to the ship."

"And the mission?" Graves asked.

"And finding Chao?" McCoy chimed in.

"Sitting here without shore to ship comms, we don't have much chance of completing the mission or finding Chao," Jim said. "What we need to do is make sure we stay safe and get the help we need either from the locals or _Trafalgar_."

"I agree," Stanwick responded. "Although it's risky. We could run into more of the unfriendlies. Our tricorders aren't picking them up at the range they're shooting from."

"Well, we know they're around _here_," Jim replied. "At least, if we move forward, we have a chance to meet up with friendlies and be able to contact the ship."

"Moving away means moving further from Chao." While not openly disrespectful, Bones was making his feelings clear.

"We don't know where Chao is, Doctor," Jim said, his voice filled with steel. "For all we know, he's sitting in the capital city waiting for us." He took a deep breath. "All right, we're setting a course for the touchdown point. McCoy, you and Graves keep your tricorders scanning for any sign of Chao. Got it? Okay then, let's get out of here."

They'd maintained a brisk pace for over an hour when Graves suddenly stopped. "Sir, I'm getting a life form reading," she called out. "Humanoid. Five hundred meters ahead."

"Chao?" Kirk asked, coming up beside her and looking over her shoulder at the tricorder readings.

"I'm not sure." Graves looked questioningly at McCoy. The doctor's tricorder was more sophisticated in terms of species differentiation.

"Definitely human," McCoy said, concentrating on his own readings. "Male. Chao," he added grimly after a moment.

"Alive?" Kirk asked.

McCoy made a few adjustments to the instrument and then looked up. "Barely."

Jim waved his arm. "Let's go. Hold up when we're ten meters away."

They approached cautiously, weapons at the ready, until they were within sight of the life form, lying alone in the middle of a clearing surrounded by pine trees. The gold shirt and black pants came into view. Jim motioned for them to stop and the group knelt in a tight cluster.

"He's critical," Bones reported urgently after consulting his tricorder. "Head trauma, severe internal injury. He needs medical attention stat." He started to rise from his crouched position.

Jim put out an arm to hold him back. "Wait." This seemed too easy. "Something's wrong here. Chao's been missing for hours and now suddenly here he is right in front of us, nearly dead. It's as if someone's inviting us to come after him."

"Jim, it's Chao," Bones repeated, his voice insistent. "His condition is critical. If I don't get to him right now, he won't make it." 

"This is a damned simulation," Stanwick said. "We all know that he's not _really_ hurt. They're creating the injuries on your tricorder."

"We don't know that," Bones replied stubbornly.

"Come on, Doc," Stanwick said. "There's no way Starfleet would let him lie there seriously hurt. Someone's monitoring the exercise."

McCoy was insistent. "He could have some injuries. Hell," he said to Jim, "they let you take shrapnel in your leg."

Jim rubbed his calf; despite McCoy's ministrations, it still hurt. "Look people, we're supposed to treat this as real. If McCoy says he's seriously injured, then for our purposes, he's seriously injured. That still doesn't mean we risk ourselves needlessly."

"Jim, he needs medical attention right now!" McCoy repeated anxiously.

Jim understood that Bones would be evaluated on his ability to diagnose and treat injury, and that he himself would be graded on his ability to return his entire team safely to the ship.

"Our first priority," Jim reminded them, "is our security. We have to be sure that, in trying to rescue Chao, we don't get anyone else injured or killed." He took a deep breath. "Okay. Stanwick, you approach and make sure he's not rigged. Graves and I'll cover you. Once you've given the clear—"

McCoy's tricorder beeped, causing him to frown. "Goddamn it. Respiratory arrest! There's no time to argue. You secure the damn scene, I'm going to take care of my patient – while I still have one."

Before Jim could object or stop him, McCoy was sprinting toward Chao, dropping to his knees beside the injured man and pulling out his medikit.

Jim rose painfully to his feet, cursing his injury that slowed him down and cursing Bones at the same time. He started toward the two men. "Damn you, McCoy—"

Jim didn't get a chance to finish the thought before bright red liquid exploded from Chao's body, covering McCoy, even as the shrill sound that signaled a simulated death filled the air.

Jim's eyes pinched shut in frustration. Chao's body had been booby-trapped. McCoy's proximity had triggered the explosion and, as a result, both he and Chao were dead. _Goddamn it to fucking hell._


	33. The Inquisition

McCoy – Year 3 Continued

The team – his team – was assembled inside a classroom waiting to be summoned to the boardroom for their debriefing. They'd receive a joint review on how well they'd functioned as a team during the mission and then would be debriefed separately. Bones would receive a review of his work as the medic; Stanwick on security; Graves on science; and Jim on command. Shit. Jim could just imagine how this would go. It was going to be a nightmare.

Bones was seated alone in a corner of the room, pulling at the collar of his red uniform. He looked more annoyed than uncomfortable, and that alone pissed Jim off. It was as if Bones didn't understand the seriousness of what was about to happen. It was the first time Jim had seen him since the landing party practical had concluded. McCoy had been pulled off the simulation after he'd been "killed in action," while Jim and the other "surviving" members were left to finish what remained of the mission.

After the simulated deaths, McCoy and Chao had been replaced with simulated bodies, which Jim and Graves had buried, marking the graves for future retrieval. After that, Jim had done exactly what he'd been trained to do when a landing party mission went horribly and inextricably wrong. He'd successfully led his dispirited remaining group to a location closer to the town, at which point their communicators magically worked. A quick call to the ship took them to safety. It was all very anticlimactic and Jim wondered if, after the debacle with McCoy, the instructors had seen enough.

The landing party practical was one of the cornerstones of the command track. Fail it and your Starfleet career would take a different and unwelcome turn. Getting two of your men killed in one mission wasn't exactly a measure of success. He had no doubt that the upcoming review would be a mere formality. He'd screwed up and he'd pay for it big time.

It was his job to protect his people. The instructors had drummed that into the command cadets. Whatever happens, keep your people safe. He'd failed in doing that. He hadn't been able to keep Bones in line – of all people, Bones had to be the one to get himself killed. Bones and his Goddamn pigheadedness. If he'd just listened, just waited a few more seconds before taking off like a damn jackrabbit . . . If Jim had positioned himself between McCoy and Chao. If his own injury hadn't slowed his reaction by the split second McCoy needed to get by him. Damn it all.

He needed to know why Bones couldn't have left well enough alone, why Bones had to fuck up everything, including probably his future. The man owed him that much.

Now, he crossed the room until he was towering over Bones, who looked up warily. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he asked in a low, controlled voice.

McCoy's eyes flashed at his, clearly taken aback by Jim's words and tone. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You disregarded my orders in the simulation and got yourself killed."

McCoy only frowned. "I was doing my job."

"And your job includes ignoring the orders of the landing party commander?" Jim asked with pointed sarcasm.

McCoy slowly stood up and planted one hand on his hip. "I'm a doctor. My job is to treat the injured."

"And you did a great job of that." Jim allowed the sarcasm and frustration to come through. "Let's see," he ticked off imaginary numbers on his fingers, "you not only killed yourself but Chao as well."

"Jim, Chao was seriously injured. In my professional opinion, he needed immediate medical attention. I understood the risks. It was my decision to take them."

Jim shouldered closer to Bones, their chests almost touching. "Even if that meant disobeying my order to stay put?"

McCoy held his ground. "An order not to treat a critically injured patient – sorry, but that's an order I can't obey."

"I didn't say you shouldn't treat him – just to wait one goddamned minute so we could be sure that you wouldn't get yourself . . . and your patient killed."

"As far as I was concerned, not treating him _was_ killing him."

Chao had come to stand next to him, looking concerned. "Hey, Jim, cut him some slack. He's a doctor, for God's sake."

"John, stay out of it." He turned back to McCoy. "What if it had been for real? What if you'd really been killed? I'd have to live with that."

McCoy finally took a step back. "You're pissed at me. I get it."

Jim refused to back down. "If you'd followed my orders to stay put until we'd secured the scene, neither of you would have died and we wouldn't have to explain why we fucked up."

Bones shook his head stubbornly. "You don't know that."

For a moment, he and Bones simply glared at each other, while the other members of the landing party did their best to look invisible, clearly not wanting to jump into the middle of what was obviously a heated argument.

"What I do know is that my career is probably toast. You don't fail the landing party practical and stay on the command track."

McCoy blinked several times and an unfamiliar look passed across his features. Before Jim could decide if it was defiance or sympathy, it was gone.

Finally, Bones opened his mouth. "Jim, it wasn't my intention—"

Whatever he had to say, whatever excuse he wanted to make, Jim didn't want to hear it. He'd done exceptionally well in the classroom but the key to the command track was showing you could put all of the classroom work into practice. If he wanted to have a shot at a top assignment after graduation, he needed to prove that he could lead when and where it counted. This had been his first real test and the results left him sick to his stomach. Maybe it wasn't entirely fair to take out his frustrations on Bones, but right now he was the person Jim considered most responsible.

"McCoy," Jim said and saw Bones flinch slightly at the use of his last name, "you may be in charge of the medical bay, but you're not in charge of the ship or the landing party and never will be. They put us through the command track for a reason, and that's so that we can try to keep idiots like you from getting yourself killed. And killing the rest of us in the process!" Jim's anger had made him almost breathless. "When a Starfleet commanding officer gives an order," he continued—

McCoy's expression could have melted ice. "Ordering me to allow a man to die isn't a legitimate order!"

"When a commanding officer gives a legal order," Jim repeated, "it's supposed to be obeyed, whether you like it or not, whether you agree or disagree with it." He exhaled. "And if you ever disobey one of _my_ orders again, I swear I'll knock you on your ass before you know what's happened."

"And if you order your medics to leave your men to die, you're going to have a damn short career as a commanding officer!"

Jim's reply was cut off by the sound of an aide summoning them inside the debriefing room. The two men marched inside together, not even looking at each other.

Jim sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, directly across from the three senior officers who would be evaluating his landing party mission. The two commanders who'd taught the course flanked Captain Pike. Jim knew from experience that Pike didn't show up for all of these debriefings, and his presence didn't bode well. He tried to gauge Pike's expression, to get some sense of how badly he'd fucked things up. As usual, Pike betrayed nothing.

Pike's eyes surveyed the five cadets. As the leader, Kirk sat in the middle. McCoy was on his far left, Stanwick between them. On his right were Chao and then Graves.

"Cadets," Pike began, "the purpose of this debriefing is to discuss and evaluate your actions during the landing party practical. This is an exercise in which you will engage many times as Starfleet officers following real missions. During today's session, you may be asked to comment on actions and decisions of your peers. I expect you to do so with forthrightness and honesty. One of the purposes of this exercise – and one of the elements in your evaluation – is your ability to analyze a situation and learn from it."

Jim and the others wisely kept their mouths shut.

"Cadet Kirk," Pike said, eyes coming to rest on him, "how would you assess your team's performance on the mission?

It was the question Jim had been asking himself over and over for the past 24 hours, and the one to which he still had no good answer.

He took a deep breath. "Sir, I believe my team performed well given that we landed kilometers from the beamdown point and were almost immediately under mortar attack. We assessed the situation, developed a cohesive plan—"

"What was your plan?"

Oh boy. "We decided that the best option was to make our way to the original touchdown point, find the local leaders and through them contact the ship."

"And yet you left Cadet Chao."

Jim sat up a little straighter in his chair. "He disappeared during the firefight and, afterwards, we were unable to locate him. Our tricorders showed he wasn't in the vicinity."

"Were you sure your tricorders were working?"

This time it was Graves who spoke up. "Sir, diagnostics indicated they were functioning properly."

"Did they have full range?" Pike asked.

"No, sir. However, that was due to atmospheric interference."

"So they were not working properly?"

Jim realized that, as mission commander, it was his responsibility to explain and justify their decisions. "Captain Pike, we considered conducting a physical search. However, we had no idea where Chao was or even if he was in the area. Given that we had an injured crewman and were at risk of further attack, we – I – decided to vacate the area."

Course instructor Commander Chang spoke up. "Cadet Graves, did you agree with Cadet Kirk's decision to abandon Cadet Chao?"

Jim's stomach clenched at the use of the word "abandon" as he stared straight ahead awaiting Graves' response.

"I believe it was justifiable under the circumstances," she said carefully.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Cadet," Pike said, giving her a sharp glance. "Did you or didn't you agree?"

Graves seemed to recoil a bit at the bite in Pike's tone. "In my gut, I wanted to stay and search. But we had no idea where he was and we were taking fire, so I understand why we needed to move out and I ultimately agreed with the decision."

"Hadn't the fire moved away when Cadet Kirk decided to depart the scene?" Chang asked.

"It had _just_ stopped and we had no idea whether it would start up again." To Jim's ear, Graves sounded a bit defensive. "And there was no sign of Chao anywhere in the vicinity."

Chang pressed on. "Did Kirk ask for the opinions of his team before making his decision."

"Yes, sir," Stanwick said, and McCoy and Graves quickly agreed.

"Cadet Stanwick, in your view, did Mister Kirk take your views into consideration when making his decision?"

"I thought so, sir," Stanwick responded.

Chang nodded and sat back in his chair even as Commander Jones, the other course instructor, leaned forward.

"Cadet Kirk, you suffered a leg injury during the mission, did you not?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Did you promptly inform Dr. McCoy of your injury?"

"He was aware of it, sir," Jim replied tightly, not sure where this line of questioning was headed.

Jones' gaze moved to Bones. "Dr. McCoy, in your medical opinion, was Cadet Kirk physically able to continue the exercise?"

"The injury turned out to be relatively minor," Bones said simply.

Pike slammed his hand on the desk causing Jim to twitch involuntarily in his seat. "Dr. McCoy," Pike asked in a gravely voice, "Did Cadet Kirk allow you to evaluate and treat his injury immediately?"

"I treated it a short time later, sir."

Pike's eyes returned to Jim. "So you set off on a long and difficult trek with an untreated leg injury."

It wasn't exactly a question, Jim noted. "I felt it was important to lead the team to a place of safety as quickly as possible. As Dr. McCoy said, my injury was minor."

"But you didn't know that at the time," Commander Chang countered. "And, you also weren't under direct fire at the time so I'm not sure it was necessary to delay treatment."

Without even looking, Jim was certain that there was an expression of smug satisfaction on Bones' face. Jim decided that Chang's comment hadn't invited a response and that it might be better to stay silent.

"Cadet Stanwick," Chang asked, "As the mission's security officer and knowing that Cadet Kirk was injured, did you agree with his decision to place himself at the rear of the formation when you moved out?"

"He didn't ask my opinion at the time, sir."

This time it was Chang whose expression turned stony. "_I'm_ asking your opinion _now_, Mister Stanwick."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Stanwick swallow hard. "His injury hindered his mobility," the security officer said slowly. "It would have been better had he taken the lead or stayed in the middle of the formation."

"Mister Kirk, why did you take the rearmost position, knowing you were injured?"

Sitting here now, Jim realized that Stanwick was right; his move had been risky. At the time, however, there were valid reasons for his decisions. He needed at least to try to defend himself. "In a zebra formation, you want your strongest firepower at the forward and rear positions. Stanwick's firing arm was broken. Graves and McCoy aren't trained in security. It made sense for me to bring up the rear."

"Had you not kept pace, you would have exposed your team to an attack from the rear."

"I realized that, sir, but believed my decision was the right one under the circumstances."

"And now?" Commander Jones asked.

"If I had to do it over again, I might reassess placing myself at the rear of the formation," Jim conceded.

Chang leaned back in his chair, appearing to contemplate his steepled fingers.

"And what about the end of the mission?" Pike finally asked. "Tell me about what happened when you found Cadet Chao."

Jim took a deep breath. Even though he was still angry with Bones over the incident, this wasn't the time or place to air their personal grievances. "Sir, Dr. McCoy assessed that Chao's injuries were life-threatening and that immediate attention was warranted. Even though we had yet to secure the scene, he—we determined that the severity of the circumstances indicated—"

"It was my decision," came a soft voice to his left. Bones.

Jim's head whipped around. "Bo—McCoy!"

Bones didn't so much as look at him. Keeping his eyes fixed on Pike, he continued speaking in a measured tone. "Cadet Kirk, as landing party commander, gave me a direct order to hold my position until the scene was secured. I believed that medical necessity dictated that I disobey that order, and that decision resulted in my death and the death of Cadet Chao."

Bones might be correct, but he was damned if he'd let him take all the blame. "Captain Pike, I was accountable for the actions of the landing party – including those of Dr. McCoy. I take full responsibility."

Jim saw Pike start to react at his comment. No way would the Captain let him get away with those vague words. But, before either he or Pike could speak, McCoy turned toward him. "Dammit, Jim, let me finish." He again focused on Pike. "Captain, as a doctor, my job is caring for the sick and injured. Cadet Chao was critically injured. In my medical opinion, he needed immediate attention to survive. I made the decision to treat him immediately despite the fact that scene was not secure." He took a deep breath. "I understand now the consequences of that decision for all involved."

Jim started to reply but Pike cut him off.

"Dr. McCoy, I appreciate your concern for an injured crewmember. However, do you believe that the few moments it would have taken to secure the scene would really have made a difference in your patient's overall outcome?"

Jim could see that McCoy wanted to make an immediate reply and had a pretty good idea of what he'd say. So he was surprised when McCoy seemed mentally to take a step back and fully consider Pike's question before answering.

"I honestly can't say, sir," he said quietly. "Trauma is a tricky business; it's not an exact science. You can look almost fine one minute and, an instant later, be dead."

Pike pressed onward. "Then you would agree that the few minutes it would have taken to disarm the bobby-trap wouldn't have made a difference?

"Captain, based on the tricorder readings I was getting and my experience as a trauma surgeon, I felt that a minute or two might well make the difference." Jim watched as McCoy's eyes focused in on Pike's. "You're relying on me to make those calls."

Pike didn't blink. "So you believe that disobeying a direct order from your commanding officer is an acceptable approach?"

"It's my responsibility to challenge the commanding officer's order, if I believe it's wrong."

"But in this case, Doctor, you did more than challenge. You disobeyed." Pike's words hung heavily in the room and for a moment the only thing that could be heard was the soft breathing of his teammates.

Jim heard McCoy suck in a harsh breath. "At the time," Bones said, "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"And now, knowing how things transpired, have your views changed? Do you still believe you made the right decision?"

Pike, Jim decided, was a sharp and insightful interrogator. If Bones, as the team medic, was being subjected to this intensity of questioning and appraisal, Jim realized that, as the team leader, he was in for a long afternoon.

"I made the right decision as a doctor," Bones was saying. "I know now that I didn't make the right decision as a Starfleet officer or, for that matter, as a Starfleet doctor." McCoy's voice lacked its usual confidence. "I understand that my medical decisions have the potential to affect others in a way that . . . well, they didn't in the past."

Shit, Jim thought to himself. That was one hell of an admission from Bones. Did Bones actually believe what he said, or was he merely trying to give Jim some cover?

Commander Chang, sitting on Pike's right, spoke again. "Chao, what's your opinion? Should McCoy have tried to rescue you?"

Chao started to respond, then turned slightly to give Pike a long look. "I've thought a lot about this."

So have we all, Jim thought.

"If I'd actually been dying, I sure as hell would have wanted McCoy to come after me. Lying there, I thought about what it meant to live and I knew that, if he didn't get to me right quick, I was going to die. I know it was simulated, but it felt real. What I didn't know was that I was rigged. If I'd known that, if I'd realized that his trying to save me would end up killing both of us . . . no way. I wouldn't have wanted my last thought to be that I'd killed him."

Commander Jones again spoke up. "Cadet Chao, in your view, was McCoy right or wrong in disobeying Kirk to save you?"

In his peripheral vision, Jim saw Chao bite down on his lip and shake his head. "His job is to save the wounded. And yet I know he needs to obey orders. He was right and yet it ended up all wrong. Shit-, sorry, sir. I just don't know."

Then it was Stanwick's turn to be under Pike's microscope, followed by Graves. Not surprisingly, the tough-nosed security officer was more sympathetic to Kirk's position, whereas Graves indicated she would have been more likely to follow McCoy's example and come to Chao's aid right away.

"I appreciate your candor," Pike said, glancing at each of them in turn. "I know that evaluating yourselves and your teammates isn't easy; it isn't supposed to be. We'll continue this discussion during the individual debriefs. It's now time for each of you to meet with your specialty boards to review your performance. You're all dismissed, except for Cadet Kirk and Dr. McCoy. Stay here, please."

There was a shuffling of chairs and the others, including the two commanders, left the room. Jim exchanged a brief glance with his team as each stood, relieved to receive a look of encouragement. In a moment they were gone and Pike's eyes were suddenly on him.


	34. Facing Facts

"Cadet Kirk." Pike's voice, like his body position, remained measured and controlled. "You said a few moments ago that, as the landing party commander, the responsibility for Dr. McCoy's actions rested with you. What, if anything, do you think you should have done differently?"

That was easy. "I should have stopped him."

Jim could have sworn Pike almost smiled. "How? By sitting on him?"

"Pulled him back, I don't know." He couldn't look at Bones as he said it.

"Kirk, you're not leading a bunch of automatons. These are highly skilled, highly trained, intelligent people. Your job is to be their leader, not their dictator."

"I realize that, sir."

"Do you?" Pike silently tapped his hand on the table.

"Yes, I do."

Pike turned to Bones, who, from Jim's perspective, sat stiffly in his seat, eyebrow slightly raised at Jim's response. "Dr. McCoy," Pike asked. "Was there anything Cadet Kirk could have said or done that would have caused you to rethink your actions?"

"I was pretty determined," Bones said, and Jim stifled a grin at the comment.

Pike's mouth turned up slightly at the corners. "I'm more than aware of that, Doctor. However, as you already realize, impulsiveness can get people killed."

"Before this exercise, I'm not sure there really was anything Jim – Cadet Kirk – could have done to stop me short of stunning me with his phaser or . . . sitting on me." Bones let go a heavy sigh. "Getting killed and getting my patient killed – even though the deaths were simulated – has made me realize that an enemy may be willing to exploit sickness or injury for its own sinister purposes. I won't forget that next time."

Pike nodded. "Let's hope not, Doctor." His gaze returned to Jim.

"Cadet Kirk, I understand that earlier today you had some words with Dr. McCoy regarding his decision to come to the aid of Cadet Chao."

Jim frowned. How had Pike heard about that? Maybe one of the other team members had told him. Or, more likely, the waiting room was also monitored as part of the exercise to see how the team reacted when they first met up after the simulation. Shit, Jim thought, he hadn't considered that.

Pike was still talking. "Were you angry at him for disobeying your order and needlessly risking his life or because you feared that his actions would have a negative impact on your own evaluation?"

Pike pulled no punches. It was a direct question to which Pike would expect a direct and honest answer. Jim would give anything to see Bones' expression but knew that his eyes dare not waiver from Pike's.

"Obviously the former, sir. Had this been a real mission, not only would we have lost the services of our ship's surgeon, but I would have lost a personal friend."

"So you're going to sit here and tell me that you never even considered the affect of Dr. McCoy's actions on your course evaluation?" Pike made clear that he wasn't going to let Jim's answer stand unchallenged.

Jim managed to steal a quick look at McCoy, who was fidgeting with the seams of his pants and looking decidedly uncomfortable. His expression seemed to say, "I'm not sure I can help you out here, kid."

"He did what he had to do," Jim admitted through clenched teeth.

"He made you angry?"

Time to come clean. "Captain Pike, at the time I didn't fully understand the reasons behind Dr. McCoy's actions; I only knew that he'd disobeyed my orders and that led to some bad results. Now that I understand more clearly why he did what he did and that he thought he was right. I think we've both learned from the experience and, if it affects our evaluations . . ." He shrugged. "That's not my call."

"You say that you understand what McCoy did, but I am curious whether you agree with his decision to risk his life to save the life of Cadet Chao?"

It wasn't a fair question. There'd been no reason for Bones to have risked his life. If Bones had simply listened to him and waited, they would have figured out that Chao was rigged, decided as a group how to deal with it and, at worst, would have only had one casualty. Jim wouldn't be worried about failing the practical and they wouldn't be sitting here having this painful debate with Pike. And that was not the answer Pike wanted or expected to hear.

"Not in this case," Jim insisted. "There were other options."

"Dr. McCoy didn't think so," Pike said. He said that he fully understood that he might well be sacrificing his life to save Chao."

Jim turned slightly to gauge Bones' expression. Bones' eyes were dark and he gave Jim a small nod of encouragement. _Be honest._

As Jim's eyes met Bones', he realized that, in his haste to criticize Bones for acting impulsively and screwing up the simulation, he hadn't stopped to consider what Bones had actually done. As well as he'd come to know the man in the past three years, Jim was pretty sure that Bones would have done the exact same thing had the situation been real and not a simulation. Militarily, it was wrong but, at heart, Bones was still struggling with becoming a military physician. His patients had always come first and probably always would, even if it might kill him. Damn.

With a start, he realized Pike was still waiting for his answer. He shook his head stubbornly. "He doesn't have the right to sacrifice himself."

"Really?" Pike asked with obvious skepticism.

"No one does!"

Pike's voice was nearly a whisper. "I seem to recall that George Kirk made a very similar decision. He sacrificed his life to save his shipmates."

"That's different," Jim replied without hesitation. "It was an entire ship, not just one man."

"Was it so different? Do you think the number of people influenced your father's decision?"

Pike's eyes bored into his and, for a moment it was if the two of them were the only men in the room.

"Leave my father out of this," Jim replied tightly, making sure the anger he felt came through in his tone.

Pike returned the anger with a look that Jim took as almost pity. "It wasn't easy to sacrifice himself and his ship in order to give the rest of the crew the chance to survive. He lost his life. And you lost your father. That can make anyone angry."

Jim wasn't about to make this a referendum on the actions of his father more than two decades early. "He did what he had to do," he said simply.

"Yes, he did. He did what he had to do. As did Dr. McCoy. As did you."

For a brief moment no one spoke.

Pike turned to McCoy, let his gaze linger for a moment, and then again met Jim's eyes. He continued speaking, now in a much softer tone. "Jim, one of the most valuable assets a commanding officer can have is a subordinate who isn't afraid to speak his mind. Listening to – and fully considering – the views of those who may disagree with you is critical to making the best decision possible."

Jim nodded. During the simulation he had appreciated the input from Stanwick, Graves and even Bones during the exercise. They were all smart, competent people. His natural instinct had always been to do everything himself because, for most of his life, he'd only had himself to rely on. He needed to recognize that, now, he was surrounded by people just as smart as he was.

"And if you berate those who challenge you," Pike continued, "you risk silencing them at the moment you most need their opinion."

Fuck. It was as if Pike was reading his mind.

"At the same time, you do need to assert your position as group leader. Once you've made a decision, the others" – and, here, Pike looked pointedly at Bones – "not only are expected to follow that decision but to implement it to the utmost of their ability. Is that understood, Doctor?"

"Yes, sir," Bones answered quickly. Jim had the feeling that Bones was more than ready to get out of this room and would say just about anything to expedite that process.

"Your job is to provide medical care; the commanding officer's job is to ensure the safety of the entire team, including you. Never forget that."

"I'll try not to, sir."

"One last thing, gentlemen, that I want you to consider very carefully. This is a dangerous business. Even when everyone on a landing party or on a ship does their best, things still go wrong. All of the planning, all of the preparation, all of the knowledge and the skill, . . . even exceptional medical care, won't be enough. People – your people – will get hurt and they will die. It's inevitable."

"As a commanding officer, you will face death and send men and women to their deaths. You will do it over and over again and, I sincerely hope, you will never get used to it."

Starfleet, Jim realized, was all that Pike had promised in that bar three years ago, and much more. Pike had dared him to do better than his father. At the time, he'd been sure that he was more than up to the challenge. Hell, he was James Tiberius Kirk, the guy who took on all-comers. He could handle anything – or so he'd thought.

Even though he'd aced the classroom exercises, the practicals of the past few weeks – first the POW camp and now the landing party practical – had been more difficult and more complex than he'd anticipated. Those experiences had helped him understand the true challenge he would face leading men and women in Starfleet.

He'd done okay so far, but okay wasn't good enough for Jim Kirk. He knew that Pike and the rest of Starfleet had yet to see his best and he was determined to show them before his days here were over. He still had one more shot – the final practical of his Academy career – the _Kobayashi Maru_. The word was that no one passed it; failure was not only expected, it was the purpose of the exercise. If he could win . . . if he could beat the "unbeatable" scenario . . .

It was all Jim could think about even as Pike stood up from his chair. Jim scrambled to follow suit, as did McCoy on his left.

"Gentlemen," Pike said, "you're dismissed."


	35. Epilogue

Well, folks, this is it – the end of what was supposed to be a series of short vignettes that somewhere along the way turned into a really long story.

I want to thank all of you who've taken the time to comment on my story. I know I didn't reply to every entry but rest assured that I read and greatly appreciated each and every one.

And, finally, a huge shout-out to my beta, gone_ashore. Some betas simply correct spelling and grammar – and that's great. But others do what she did, which is challenge me, push me at every turn, and – at the end of the process – made this a better story and made me a better writer. I can't begin to express my thanks.

* * *

Epilogue

McCoy wiped his eyes and let his fingers roam over his forehead until they rested on his temples. He rubbed gently, deciding that a self-massage was never as good as the real thing.

Tomorrow was his casualty practical, which would simulate some sort of massive damage to a starship that would result in scores of wounded personnel. It would be up to him to direct the medical efforts.

Against his better judgment, McCoy had taken Pike's advice and put in for a starship billet upon graduation. Somewhere between Jim's infectious enthusiasm, Pipe's relentless prodding, and the crazy excitement of that damn landing party practical, he'd decided that, if he was going to be in Starfleet, he might as well be on a starship. Because he stood at the top of his class, the selection process was a mere formality. He'd be going to a ship as one of the staff physicians; however, he wouldn't learn which ship until graduation day.

He stared at the computer screen, memorizing the locations of the forward dressing/first aid stations, the equipment with which each was stocked, and how far each was from both the main medical bay and alternative medical bay. Treating trauma patients and even managing a large number of casualties wasn't the problem. The problem was that he'd always done it from the security of the ER or OR. The patients arrived at his door; all he had to do was treat them.

In this practical, there would be patients all over the ship. As the medic in charge, he'd need to decide whether to rely on regular crewmembers with medical training to staff the first aid stations, or forward deploy some of his limited medical personnel and reduce the staffing of the medical bay. It would be his decision whether to risk transporting seriously injured crewmembers to medical bay or to try to treat them in the field. He'd have to triage patients, taking into account not only the severity of their injuries but their importance to saving the ship. Unfair as it might be, in a crisis, a seriously injured Chief Engineer would take priority over a similarly injured yeoman.

_Let's see, on this ship, forward dressing station #3 can be used as an emergency OR. Dressing station #6 is closest to the bridge, meaning those injuries need to be addressed on a priority basis. The only route from station #1 to medical bay is via corridor 4 . . ._

A tone indicated someone was at the door. He debated ignoring the visitor; he really needed to study. If he wanted to have his choice of assignments, he needed to ensure he stayed at the top of his class, and scoring well on his practical was an important step in making sure he did.

The tone sounded again. A quick flip of a switch revealed that his visitor, not surprisingly, was Jim.

McCoy stretched in his chair, deciding he might as well see what Jim wanted. Pretending to ignore someone with Jim's computer skills wouldn't work – Jim would know that he had an exam the next day, would probably guess that he was here studying and thus simply let himself in, as he had many times before. McCoy verbally released the door lock.

Jim, dressed casually in civilian clothes, which were now permitted outside of class for the third-year cadets who were only weeks from graduation, stepped into the room and pulled a bottle from behind his back. "Peace offering?" he asked, holding it out for inspection.

McCoy's eyes widened and his eyebrows skyrocketed. In Jim's hand rested a bottle of fifty-year old scotch. "Holy shit, Jim. Where'd you get hold of that?"

"I know it's not bourbon . . ." Jim started to explain.

"If it's old enough to be my father and then some, who cares?"

McCoy was pleased to see Jim laugh at the comment. Since the landing party simulation debrief two days ago, he'd barely seen Jim. McCoy had been busy studying for his own practical and Jim, he assumed, had turned his attention to preparations for the upcoming _Kobayashi Maru_.

Jim looked at him expectantly. "So, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to get some glasses so we can start putting this stuff to good use?"

McCoy grinned and quickly went into the kitchen where he retrieved two glasses. Returning to the main room, he set them down on the table and dropped onto the sofa. Jim took the seat across from him and poured two fingers' worth of the amber liquid into each glass.

"So what are we celebrating?" McCoy asked over the rim of his glass, savoring the aroma of the aged liquor.

Jim leaned back in the chair and crossed one foot over his knee. "Look, Bones. I'm sorry about what I said after the landing party simulation. I was out of line."

"It's okay."

Jim gave a minute shake of his head and looked at McCoy sadly with eyes that lacked their usual fire. "No, it's not okay. It wasn't okay to blame you."

"Jim, it's over and done with." And, as far as McCoy was concerned, it was. They'd both gotten a little riled up, had pushed each other's buttons and, with Pike's careful prodding, he at least had emerged a bit wiser for the experience.

Jim set down his drink and leaned forward. "Bones, ever since you sat down next to me on that damned shuttle, you've been the one guy . . . hell, the one person I can trust—"

"You're not about to propose, are you?" McCoy asked in a voice that was slightly mocking.

Jim nearly spit out his drink. "Of course not. I'm simply trying to tell you that . . . well, I don't have a lot of friends. You deserve better."

McCoy realized what this small exhibition of vulnerability had cost. "Shut up and drink, would you," he said quickly to cover the awkwardness of the moment and gulped down a too-large sip to set an example.

"Bones, I'm trying to be serious."

"I know you are, kid. And I'm trying to enjoy this scotch." Seeing that Jim wasn't about to relent, McCoy took one last sip and set down his glass.

Jim was still talking. "When you died in that simulation, yeah, I was angry that all of us, including me, might fail the practical. Hell, that pissed me off. But that was nothing compared to the thought that one of these days you might pull off some stupid shit like that and actually die on me." Jim's eyes bored into his with a sadness McCoy had never before seen. "And I have no idea what the fuck I'd do if that ever happened."

McCoy was silent for a moment. When he'd rushed forward to save Chao, he hadn't really contemplated his own demise. He'd simply done what, in that moment, he had to do, which was to save his patient. "You'd go on," he said quietly.

Jim jumped up from the couch. "I wouldn't _want_ to go on," he almost shouted.

"Jim, we're in Starfleet. Whether that makes us brave men or foolish idiots, I'm not sure. What I am sure of is that we're going to be in situations where we face death more often than either of us would like. My job is to keep morons like you from dying and your job is to keep morons like me from killing myself. But, like Pike said, one of these days, one of us might fail."

Jim leaned against the far wall and sighed heavily. "I know that. It's just that the damned landing party simulation got me thinking about it actually happening. I swear, Bones, I won't let it happen."

McCoy cracked a smile at the determination in Jim's voice. "If I'm ever on your ship, I'll hold you to that promise."

He was relieved to see Jim's mouth turn up slightly at the corners. "You'd better be on my ship. Who else is going to keep my feet out of the fire?"

McCoy laughed. "There aren't enough doctors in the entire universe to do that."

"I only need one." The blue eyes flashed at him. "You."

"Thanks a lot." McCoy appreciated the compliment and the sentiment behind it. He also knew that the best reply to Jim's serious words would be something light. "Well, I guess we'll both find out in about three weeks where we're headed."

"What ship are you going to ask for?"

McCoy shrugged noting that Jim seemed relieved that the subject was back on less personal topics. "Like everyone, I'd love to get aboard the _Enterprise_." As Starfleet's newest and largest warship, she'd be outfitted with all of the latest military technology as well as creature comforts. And, because she was considered the newest and the best, the _Enterprise_ would also be likely to get the most interesting and challenging missions.

"I hear Pike's in line for command of her."

That didn't entirely surprise McCoy. Pike was known to be a rising star, and command of the _Enterprise_ was probably the final step to making Admiral. "Hmm. I'm not sure if that's good or bad for my cause."

"I was thinking the same thing. It would really help if I do well on the _Kobayashi Maru_."

The exercise was well known to all Starfleet cadets. Thankfully, medical officers were exempted from this command simulation. "Isn't that the one that everyone fails?" McCoy asked.

Jim sat back down and poured both of them another finger of scotch. "Just because people have failed it in the past doesn't mean I have to."

"I thought _everyone_ failed – that it's the purpose of the practical – courage in the face of certain death, or something like that."

"I don't intend to die," Jim replied stubbornly.

"Isn't it a 'no-win' scenario?"

"There's no such thing."

McCoy had had too many patients die on his operating table to believe in that. But that attitude was, in essence, Jim Kirk. Whether it was four-on-one in a barfight, teaching a surgeon hand-to-hand combat, getting singled out for 'special' treatment as a POW, or challenging the _Kobayashi Maru_, Jim simply didn't believe in no-win scenarios.

"Well, I hope you nail it," he said with as much encouragement as he could muster.

"I will, if it takes me twenty tries."

McCoy's eyebrow arched. "Do you get more than one shot at it?"

"I don't know that anyone's ever asked. But I figure I'll ace it on my first try, so it won't be an issue. Want to join me?"

McCoy shook his head. "Don't think so. From what I hear, there's not really a role for a doctor."

"You could be the navigator." Jim gave him an evil grin. "Put some of that training into practice."

"No thanks." As with the combat training, medics were required to do some positional cross-training and McCoy had selected navigation. At the time, it had seemed to make more sense than communications, weapons, or – God forbid – transporter technician.

"Okay, but you'll miss out on the opportunity to see the first person in Starfleet history pass the _Kobayashi Maru_," Jim said theatrically.

McCoy smiled. "I'll wait for the holovid."

Jim leaned his head against the top of the couch. "You know, it's crazy."

"What's crazy?"

"That we both ended up here." Jim sat up straight and met his eyes. "What are the odds that we'd end up on the same shuttle in the same class . . . shit, if Pike hadn't walked into that bar and given me the 'opportunity' to enlist in Starfleet—" Jim took a drink of his scotch.

"And I hadn't accepted Starfleet's _opportunity_ to get the hell away from Jocelyn." McCoy held up his glass and downed a deep sip.

Jim smiled and nodded. "And if you hadn't sewed up my gut." Another sip, as if in cadence.

McCoy poured himself some more scotch. "If _you_ hadn't gotten knifed in the gut. Of course, as payback you decided to teach me how to dig myself into the goddamn dirt." He shook his head in disbelief at the memory before taking another drink.

"And kept you from flunking out in your first month."

McCoy inched forward on the couch. "Speaking of flunking out, if I don't stop drinking and start studying, I'm going to fail my practical tomorrow."

Jim waved his own glass dismissively. "Bones, you're not going to fail."

"And you know that how?" he asked somewhat flippantly, eyebrows taking their usual path skyward.

McCoy watched as Jim took a breath and slowly exhaled. When Jim's eyes met his, they were as intense as ever. "Because you're a damned good doctor. And friend."

McCoy smiled and held up his glass in salute. "To friendship."

Jim touched his glass to McCoy's. "To friendship."

_~End~_


End file.
